#Women in many fields are still treated like shit. Feeling that you have to hide your identity as a woman is STILL a relevant issue.

[amaryllisandbluebells]

Yeah, headcanons and all but at the same time if you misgender Naoto Shirogane (WHO IS VERY MUCH A WOMAN) and insist on this being the obvious truth I am spraying you in the face with water like a dog for disregarding character arcs and commentary on societal issues in favor of your own projection.

[ethanhuntfemmefatale]

One of my favorite bits about mi1 is that the initial team is half women, something that never occurs ever again. but I also think it’s sweet and I like that ethan has a girl squad especially because the later movies love to make up a woman with the exact same problem that Ethan has in that movie. It’s great!

somehow i never actually answered this but it's an excellent point and im thinking about it. yes I also love the MI1 team dearly and I'm grateful to mcq for steering us back in that direction (it seems) finally for dr2. and MI1 generally has some really fun women, max is so much of what makes MI1 great, so is Claire IMO. I have a complicated relationship with the way MI1 condemns Claire morally, which is a topic for another post, and weakens the MI1 themes to me as well as my overall feeling about how MI1 treats its women.

one thing MI does really well as a rule is giving ethan thematic parallels with the women he's paired with, making them a narrative foil instead of (or as well as) a love interest. Claire/Ethan parallels are essential to MI1 working as well as it does. Nyah/Ethan parallels are what save MI2 in my estimation. Julia/Ethan parallels are the weakest, and tbh i blame JJ Abrams for that, it's more of a situation where Julia is a conduit for Ethan's arc which...it makes sense given how much shit he's projecting on her but I would like it if she had a "reality" that resisted the "fantasy" and made her more of a thematic partner to Ethan. Maybe she's using Ethan as an escape too, maybe she needs Ethan to fill some thematically relevant emotional wound, anything that would center her mental state more in the movie, JJ. anyway moving on--jane/Ethan! Jane is not a love interest at all but she's a massively interesting narrative foil! Ilsa/Ethan is fascinating, Ilsa's arc has so many echoes of MI2, MI3 era Ethan. Ilsa incorporates Ethan's showmanship, his physicality, his earnestness, while still having her own "code." She's a killer, she's a fighter, and she is way less passive than Ethan in reaction to getting hurt. fucking Alanna/Ethan is a whole can of worms that i think about no joke every single fucking day recently but in a phrase alanna embodies Ethan's corruption in MI1 that ethan has been running from and hiding from everyone for a very long time now. And she's a strong parallel with MI1 Ethan and i would argue Max and Claire, the corrupt power-hungry women. Grace/Ethan, Grace embodies the criminal past Ethan is finally ready to accept as part of him, and her arc of being able to make the radical choice to protect others is the culmination of the entire franchise. Anyway to get into the weeds a bit i have an issue with MI and it's that the women are young. Angela Bassett is a nice exception in Fallout but her role is minor and administrative. I just wish Ethan had a powerful narrative foil that was his age. He's survived so much, he's one of the only people who's lived as long as he has in this business, and I think it would be really cool for him to be interacting with another player in the field, where you feel their age and the weight and power of it, and have that character be a woman. Idk this is why in my unrealistic fantasies claire survived mi1 to replace kittridge's role in DR1, obviously that's not in the control of mcq or anyone but it would just be so cool. Anyway that's my only beef with MI's treatment of its female characters, which is generally so much better than I normally see. I get so irritated when movies try to make me invested in a relationship based on attraction rather than a thematic connection between the characters, and part of that is that I've been spoiled by MI, where female characters play such meaty roles and have their own arcs alongside and in parallel/conflict with ethan.

[thedivinecalamity]

God I need to bitch so badly right now, I'll put it under a readmore since I don't know how long it will be

I fucking hate finding a new psychiatrist. My """current""" one used to be good but they partnered with a big practice and now I have no way of getting ahold of him, and the people he's asked me to speak to instead never respond to my emails, and one day I literally called them 5 times throughout the day and left a message, and they still never contacted me back. Oh but they'll gladly pester me about getting a new card in their system since the old one expired :) Except they still make me enter my card details every fucking time before an appointment, and one time it was declining my card despite knowing I had the money (it just said a general error) so I couldn't join the meeting, and had no way of contacting them so I ended up missing it :))

I found a new psychiatrist now, but I really dislike her. I'm sorry but I'm going to go on a misogynistic rant now, I do not care, I am a woman, I am allowed to criticize other women for being ableist towards me. I've noticed female psychiatrist are so much worse than male ones. All the female psychiatrists I've had have been the worst ones I've ever had, sure I won't deny that I have had bad experiences with men, but I feel like the men tend to listen to me at least? (I know that sounds insane, I do not think that for other medical fields absolutely not) I'm sure I have a sample bias, I won't deny that, but god I am tired.

Like I feel like female psychiatrists see someone mentally ill and feel the need to baby them?? Or treat them like idiots that know they have no clue what they could be talking about cause they're just that retarded. I've gotten this treatment way more from women, I just genuinely don't know why. And yes, I know I mentioned my current psychiatrist as 'he', and believe me I am pissed at him, but before he partnered with a larger company he would actually listen to me and believed in what I was saying.

I had an appointment with my new psychiatrist (who I hope at least improves or I can find someone new), it lasted only half an hour, but holy shit. I mention my symptoms and mental illnesses, including ocd which is especially hard to mention to people irl. After I'm done describing some of my symptoms, which I did not describe all because I am not very good at explaining things on the spot, she just goes "I don't think you have ocd, those symptoms sound like xyz and you do not have these very specific symptoms (despite how varied ocd can be)." Fuck You. You've known me for 15 minutes. I literally have an official ocd diagnosis. Yes she wouldn't know that since she hasn't gotten that paperwork yet, but in that case why don't you just shut the fuck up until it arrives. I absolutely know people like to self diagnose themselves with ocd all the time, partially as a joke. She probably has heard that a lot and maybe (hopefully) is "trying" to say I don't have it to not have it be such a misconception. But it goes both fucking ways. The amount of "well meaning" people I've had tell me that I do not have ocd because so many jackasses have self diagnosed themselves is staggering. You are not being helpful to people with ocd. I just have to hide it even more. Tbh, even if I was faking having ocd, what good even is that comment? I'm sure there's some people that would self reflect, but I think most would likely get defensive and double down.

I have another medication that helps with my concentration, and she believes in my other mental illnesses, but for some reason doesn't see how that medication helps me?? Despite describing how much of a life changer it is? I don't want to get into the details about this point really, but she's kinda threatening to take it away from me. This is another problem I've had with female psychiatrists. They seem so judgemental of medications and always try to get me off of mine. They make me feel like they're judging me as some sort of druggie. Maybe it has something to do with those women who believe medications are the devils work and use fucking home remedies like radiated mud or fucking crystals. They always seem to want to give me therapy instead of helping with my meds, despite the fact that I already have a therapist I can contact that actually fucking listens to me and helps me and believes that I have ocd. I swear to god these people want the pay of a psychiatrist but just want to practice therapy. I don't want therapy from you shithead! You don't believe in so many things I've said and seem to ignore anything else.

I can't fucking stand this shit anymore. I'm sure people would think I'm a total baby for getting upset at these things. I wouldn't be this upset if this was a one off. But I'm sick of hearing these types of comments and attitudes. I'm so sick of the jokes about ocd that people will make and then turn around and try to be "allies" by "correcting" me. I am sick of people acting like needing certain meds means your a druggie or a sign that you're a failure. This psychiatrist, and many others will say this shit to me, and then at 5:30 turn in for the day and completely forget this shit they've said, because it's not something they care or need to think about. It doesn't affect them. But I have to constantly deal with these fucking comments. I hate mentioning my ocd irl, but you kind of have to with psychiatrists. So I do. And this is what I fucking get? I have to involuntarily expose part of myself that normally I would only do after long trusting someone, and you take that and just fucking crush it, and you don't even realize it.

[astrobydalia]

🌸OBSERVATIONS!! (finally lmao)🌱

Credit: Tumblr blog @astrobydalia

It's been a long time coming! So happy for spring being finally here! Here's the long ass observation post you guys asked for. Since it's quite a big amount of observations, I've decided it'd be a good idea to number them so that it's easier to reference them. As always, enjoy them!

🌸 1. Lilith in the 2nd house can indicate something fishy going on with the relationship between the native’s parents.

🌱 2. Malefic placements such as pluto, chiron, Saturn or Lilith in the 12th indicates a lot of skeletons in the closet when it comes to family and family history

🌸 3. Chiron in Aries/1st house or Leo/5th house is kind of bitch placement. The person basically feels like they can’t be themselves and there’s a lot of self-denial and/or not accepting themselves, how they really are, what they really want, etc. Lots of self-esteem issues

🌱 4. People with sexual placements in the 2nd house (Mars, Venus, Lilith, Eros, ruler of the 8th house) base their self-worth on how sexually attractive they are. If they don't feel sexually desirable to everyone, they feel like they're shit

🌸 5. Lilith is what people think Pluto/Scorpio is!!!! All that stuff about magnetic, sexual and intoxicating but dangerous? Lilith.

🌱 6. Scorpio/Pluto in 4th could mean that the person had to work hard to survive something growing up. It could be poverty, their parents’ expectations, an early trauma, etc. Whatever the situation is, the native felt like they grew up in a high-stress environment where they had to endure and survive

🌸 7. When it comes to degrees, the higher the degree, the bigger or stronger the effect. For example Leo degrees (5º, 17º, 29º) are fame degrees. 5th degree would give small fame, 17th degree would be normal and significant fame or recognition inside the person’s field and 29th degree is moreso widespread or permanent fame

🌱 8. Saturn in the 5th house is a huge indicator of turning your hobby into your job. Also these people can be very awkward in their personality

🌸 9. I’ve noticed people with Neptune in the 6th (maybe 2nd) house may have been hospitalized and if Uranus or Pluto are placed here also indicates getting surgery or operations for health reasons

🌱 10. People with Uranus or Pluto in the 1st, 2nd or conjunct the ASC could get surgery due to aesthetic reason

🌸 11. Mercury dominant people (or strong Gemini energy in the chart) like to have or get things quick and easy. For example they prefer a straight forward summary over an in-depth and elaborated explanation with too many details

🌱 12. Your moon sign shows how you see your past. Your 4th house represent how you see your childhood. But your moon represents under which light you always view your past and everything that has happened in your life in general. It also shows the type of stuff from your past you tend to focus on. Since Cancer and Pisces represent past and remenaicence, that's why Cancer and Pisces moons have trouble getting over the past.

🌸 13. Your 10th house on the other hand is how you see your future. Whenever someone asks you “where you see yourself in 5 years?” your 10th house is the one that’ll be answering that question

🌱 14. Gemini moon/mars are the LEAST likely to hold grudges (unless chart says otherwise)

🌸 15. The house where you have your Neptune indicates the themes you tend to lie about, don’t give much info, say stuff about it that are misleading etc. and in consequence people might not have a clear/correct idea of this part of your life

🌱 16. Virgo risings rarely or basically never pose for pictures. They just look straight forward to the camera, sometimes smile and maybe make a small gesture like putting one hand in their pocket or tilt their head but that’s it. (Virgo = minimalism)

🌸 17. Scorpios really don’t give a single fuck they just DON’T 😭💀 Remember this sign is all or nothing, they either care too or don't care AT ALL

🌱 18. I said it once and I’ll say to a hundred times more: Geminis are not two-faced, it’s LIBRA!! Seriously Libras are the FAKEST people I’ve ever met. Why? Because it's ruled by the planet of love (Venus), which means Libra has a knack for being liked by everyone and making everyone feel liked. HOWEVER Libra is an AIR sign and air represents mind, NOT feelings. In conclusion, Libra can make you feel "loved" (venus) and still not give a damn about you bc its air nature makes them prone to emotional detachment. That's why they are able to roast you and make it look like they're complimenting you, specially when they have Scorpio mercury.

🌸 19. Just like you look at where’s the ruler of your rising sign to get more info on your rising, check the ruler of your Sun sign for more info on your personal identity (check sign and house). For ex. I have Virgo Sun in the 9th. Ruler of Virgo=Mercury. I have mercury in Libra in the 10th house which makes me more serious (10th house) and diplomatic/people pleaser (Libra)

🌱 20. If you found that you “couldn’t” do what’s previously described because you’re a Leo sun, check the degree and decan of your Sun

🌸 21. I’ve noticed mercury retrograde people are the type of individuals who always know exactly the right things to say. You’ll always see them take a couple of seconds before answering but they tend to give very good responses

🌱 22. I’ve noticed many women with Virgo Venus/Sun/MC/Lilith have been slut-shamed at some point of their life or they’ve been seen as promiscuous/sexual/etc.

🌸 23. Capricorn moons are not emotionless machines. The thing with these natives is that their mothers treated them like an adult the second they came out of the womb, so basically they skipped the “love and affection” stage and went straight to the “grow up” stage, but they can love really hard and real deep (Capricorn is deep down a very sentimental sign). They are very ride or die people tbh, they are very patient, accepting and understanding

🌱 24. I've noticed that people at first deny their rising sign in Vedic astrology, but eventually they end up accepting it and they actually end up relating to it a lot. I feel like this is because our rising sign in Vedic astrology is usually the sign of our 12th house in Western astrology, which leads me to believe that our 12th house sign is not our shadow side but more like our deep subcontious personality and that's why we have a hard time accepting it when we see it as our rising sign in Vedic astrology. It's like your rising sign (in western) is the director of the play but your 12th house is the energy that previously wrote the script

🌸 25. So many celebrities have moon in the 11th house. Also this placement indicates that you had a mother that put you out there constantly like posting everything about you on social media, bringing you to big events or your mom was “famous” in some capacity

🌱26. Gemini risings tend to believe everything they are told. More specifically, once they find someone that knows a little bit more than them they’ll believe everything they teach them and will most likely rely on them intellectually, for advice, guidance, etc. This is bc they have DSC in Sagittarius which makes them see the people they associate with as masters and mentors while, as a Gemini rising, they identify as an apprentice.

🌸27. Both 8th house and 12th house have been associated with secrets. The different is that the 8th house represents what you CONTIOUSLY and deliberately hide from others and most likely deny to yourself (or not, depends on the person). 12th house on the other hand represents subconscious, things that are hidden even from you and you didn’t even know were hidden. 4th house is not necessarily secrets, it represents privacy, like when people have a sanctuary to just relax, unwind and feel secure, that’s the 4th house.

🌱28. Sun or Moon in the 4th house will make you a sociable but private person.

🌸29. Sun or moon in the 8th house will make you an intriguing and mysterious person.

🌱30. Sun or moon the 12th house makes you a very elusive or wishy-washy person

🌸31. I’ve seen many Scorpio sun/moon/mars/rising individuals obsessed with the idea of being prepared for a catastrophe. They could be the type to, for example, have some saved cash just in case something bad happens with their bank money, have a backup account just in case their main one gets deleted, could have a “leave before you get left” philosophy, etc.

🌱32. Is it just me or the astro community talks a lot about Aries moons???

🌸33. I’ve noticed people with 4th house in Virgo could have been raised in a very judgemental household where there was lots of taboos and prejudice as to what’s right and what’s not and the family was too preoccupied with a perfect and immaculate reputation. For example could have been raised with values such as “only criminals wear tattoos” or “you should stay celibate till marriage or else you’re a whore”, etc. and if the native broke those rules they could have been very criticized and almost loathed by the family. They native could have been highly criticized in general by their family

🌱34. I’ve noticed women that have their moon harshly aspecting Pluto, Uranus and Mars or overall have a very afflicted moon tend to have very painful period cramps

🌸35. Something I have noticed with Venus or Moon conjunct Saturn people is that the concept of unconditional love sounds like alien language to them. That of course doesn’t mean they can’t love but they have this deep belief that they have to achieve something in order to deserve love and stuff like that

🌱36. Also, I just noticed that people with Saturn conjunct sun/moon/Venus/ASC, Capricorn big 3 or Capricorn degrees in personal placements have gone through IT man, specially on an internal level. I've noticed going through depression is a common theme for people with this Capricorn/Saturn influence

🌸37. Virgo Suns could often struggle to find balance between having healthy ego and being humble.

🌱38. Also people with Virgo+Leo energy are the MOOOOST judgmental people out there. Imagine ego mixed with a sense of knowing what’s correct. They tend to believe they’re morally superior and easily liable people as inferior

🌸39. The underdeveloped energy of a sign asimilates negative traits of its sister sign. For example underdeveloped Virgo is overly perfectionist and judgmental to the point where they have unrealistic expectations (Pisces)

🌱40. On the other hand the developed version of a sign is balanced out by understanding its sister sign. For example Leo knows they are unique and special and deserves recognition but understands everyone is also unique in their own way (Aquarius)

🌸41. I’ve noticed a person can very easily manifest the stereotypical characteristics of the sign that naturally rules the house where their chart ruler is. For example if someone’s chart ruler (ruler of the ASC) is in the 7th house the person can easily manifest stereotypical characteristics of Libra like being a people pleaser

🌱42. Sagittarius ASC/Mars people are all fun, amicable and outgoing.... until they don’t get their way. They will get away from people and situations that won’t give them what they want and they can genuinely dislike people solely because those people don’t let them have their way. They tend to go around life like they have a free pass to get away with everything they want.

🌸43. People with ASC-Neptune aspects don’t have a very reliable vision of reality or themselves to be honest. I don’t know how people with this aspect haven’t lost their mind already. They are prone to subconsciously manipulating or easily getting manipulated. With hard aspects this is a lot more obvious but I’ve noticed with easy aspects this energy tends to go almost unnoticed and they easily get away with stuff

🌱44. Have seen many famous people with North node in the 2nd, 5th, 11th and 12th houses specially

🌸45. Air risings or air dominance with Sagittarius placements/degrees are people who love cartoons/animations/videogames regardless of their age.

🌱46. When I got into astrology I didn’t understand why Sun is in detriment in Libra, but oh man... All Libras I’ve met had HUGE issues with trusting themselves. They doubt themselves 24/7 and that’s not even an exaggeration and I’ve noticed they actually may have grown up doubting themselves for some reason or they had a family (their dad) that caused this feeling in them. Also I’ve seen that those Libras with Scorpio placements feel like they have to hide something about themselves otherwise they’ll be rejected. Yes they are endlessly charming, but that's because they have essentially created their personality around the desire of being liked/accepted. They always need to feel they have SOMEONE. Their sense of self, INDIVIDUALITY, independence and assertiveness is lost in the process. Unless they have fire and specially Aries placements to balance this out they can feel like they have no personality and that’s why they are often perceived as fake or shallow.

🌸47. Literally ALL Virgo placements one way or another will always suggest a way to solve your problems when giving emotional support

🌱48. I have a theory that, since 4th house is how you were raised, your home and your parents, your 10th house is how you’d be as a parent yourself and the type of home you’ll create yourself

🌸49. Contrary to my expectations, I’ve seen priests having a much more prominent 4th house (many times combined with 8th house/Scorpio energy) than 12th house. People with 12th house placements or stellium seem to prefer artistic fields rather than classic spirituality

🌱50. The house where you have your Pluto is a house you just can NOT take lightly EVER. This area of your life feels like a heavy topic to you in some way (you are either obsessed with it, find It traumatic, get extremely defensive over it, find it spiteful, you feel everything goes wrong, etc, etc.) Can also apply to the house where you have the sign of scorpio

🌸51. In synastry, Venus falling in the 12th house creates a healing dynamic in the relationship, the connection can feel cathartic specially for the house person. The house person might tend to always be comforted by the venus person’s support, always feel better (or even energetically “cleansed”) after being with them. The venus person never judges the house person and accepts them and is always willing to be there.

🌱52. I’ve noticed this pattern in people with mutable moons where they have absent mothers in some shape or form. Their mother is very inconsistent, she always comes and goes. Very often the native may have felt like their mother always “left them be” (virgo moon moms put restrictions but eventually are rather flexible)

🌸53. People with cardinal moons have bossy mothers. In many cases they can have the type of mother that is constantly making decisions for them, like their mother decides what/where they’re going to study for example (the house tells what type of things the mother tends to make decisions on).

🌱54. People with fixed moons have possesive and protective moms. While mutable moons have absent mothers, natives with fixed moons have mothers that are ALWAYS there in some shape or form. At the very least the influence of the mother is always there and they always have this sense of “loyalty” towards their mom.

Credit: Tumblr blog @astrobydalia

That's it for now, next observation post is just as long but much better, stay tuned and safe loves 💕

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: Part III (x reader)

Summary: Spencer has to face Anita and Sam— and learns a little about reader’s past. Reader and Spencer babysit for Michael and Henry. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, a tiny smidge of hurt/comfort

Warnings/Includes: implied smut, drinking/alcohol, vague mentions of previous emotional/mental abuse (Owen)

Word count: 4.2k

a/n: This picks up right after the end of the tmsidk epilogue! I also worked two requests in here.

Series Masterlist

———

Spencer stacked the last of the tiny chairs in the center of the room, stepping back and dusting his palms on his trousers. He looked over to see Y/N playing a sort of container tetris with the bins of supplies in her closet. He smiled a little to himself, his head still in the metaphorical clouds with her confession of love. 

She maneuvered the bins to her satisfaction and shut the closet doors, pushing against them to squeeze everything in until the latch clicked. She turned to see him watching her and wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. She gave him a wink and a grin, and he was falling all over again. 

She perched on the corner of her desk with a tired sigh, and he made his way across the room to her. She reached for him as soon as he was within arms length, wrapping her arms around his middle. She snuggled into his chest, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go to dinner to celebrate.”

She laughed and looked up at him. “Celebrate what?”

He shrugged. “You. Summer.” He brought his arms around her shoulders. “Love.”

She smiled and scrunched her nose at him. “You just want me to say it again.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

Her hands came to rest on his hips, her fingers squeezing lightly. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he answered immediately and rather dreamily. 

“Yo, Y/L/N!” 

The call of her name from the hallway startled them both. Anita began to step over the threshold, continuing, “You ready to get absolutely crunk tonight or— oh.” She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes tracking Spencer’s frame. “Dr. Reid.”

Spencer stepped back from Y/N, smiling a little awkwardly at the formality and giving a wave. “Mrs. Lopez. It’s, um— it’s nice to see you again.”

Anita hummed noncommittally, and Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets. She turned her attention back to Y/N. “So, are we going out or what?”

Y/N groaned. “Anita, I’m exhausted. Can we keep it low key? Oh!” Her eyes lit up with an idea, and Spencer could already see where this was going. “Spence and I were gonna get dinner to celebrate, um— summer. Call Sam; we’ll all just go together.”

Anita spared a glance in Spencer’s direction before sighing heavily. “Fine. But I’m drinking.” With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared back into the hallway.

Y/N chuckled. “I swear she’s not actually an alcoholic.” Her eyes landed on Spencer’s face, and she smiled gently. “I know you weren’t expecting a Meet the Friends night, but it’ll be fun.”

“She hates me,” Spencer surmised.

“She does not hate you.” Y/N stood from the desk, pressed a reassuring peck to his lips. “She’s just… protective. That’s all.”

…

Y/N was entirely wrong. Anita Lopez hated him. That was the only explanation for her absolutely icy demeanor. 

They’d met up with her and Sam at a Mexican restaurant in Tenleytown. Sam was wonderfully kind and funny, even apologizing for having “flipped him the bird” the last time she saw him. And it was a good thing Sam was being friendly, because Anita was decidedly… less so. 

Spencer understood completely of course. He’d broken Y/N’s heart. Penelope had been ready to hunt her down at the mere thought of him being hurt. As Y/N’s best friend, Anita had every right to be wary of him. She had every right to hate him. He’d just... hoped that she wouldn’t. 

Thankfully, Y/N and Sam were more than happy to carry the conversation— he and Anita chiming in here and there. He learned that Sam worked as an attorney at a firm specializing in family law. She and Anita had two kids, Riley and Sidney— one in 2nd grade and the other in preschool. 

“Y/N is still Riley’s favorite teacher ever,” Sam told him. “I mean, it helps when she’s also your aunt, I guess.”

“He didn’t get any special treatment,” Y/N insisted. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, she laughed. “Okay, maybe a little special treatment. But you raised a good kid! And I can’t help it that he was the most trustworthy of the bunch.”

“Oh my god, the field trip,” Sam groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. 

“The field trip!” Y/N turned to Spencer. “My group of kiddos from two years ago— they were kind of a tough group.”

“Kind of?” Anita squeaked. “Let me just tell you, I can hear them through the floor. The entire middle school is literally dreading the day they make it upstairs.”

Sam piped in, “I chaperoned on said field trip to the zoo. And I vowed that I will never, ever go on another field trip. Ever.”

“What happened?” Spencer asked incredulously. 

“So many things,” Sam baited. 

Y/N covered her mouth to stifle a cackle, leaning a bit into Spencer’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but smile, looking around at the three women. Even Anita was chuckling, and she’d barely cracked a smile all evening. 

“Okay, so many things happened,” Y/N started, “but the worst was—”

“The poop!” Sam wheezed. “The poop was the worst part of that day. The smell alone, oh my god.”

Y/N composed herself as best she could, gesturing over the table. “So after this nightmare of a day, we get on the bus, and there’s this— smell.”

“The absolute worst smell you’ve ever smelled, Spencer,” Sam assured. 

“It’s awful. It’s so bad,” Y/N agreed. “And I’m literally going seat to seat, checking to make sure no one has shit themselves.”

“You could not pay me enough,” Anita chimed in. 

“And I get to the seat that is very clearly where the smell is coming from. And I can’t, like— hold my nose, right? I don’t want to embarrass him!” Y/N turned to Spencer with flushed cheeks. “So I ask, ‘Sweetheart, did you have a bathroom accident?’”

Spencer let out a nervous laugh. “Oh no.” 

“But oh, it wasn’t a bathroom accident,” Y/N clarified, waving her hand. “No, no— that would be too easy. This child had somehow managed to obtain copious amounts of poop from one of the zoo animals and packed it into his lunchbox to take home.”

Spencer could feel his jaw drop. “Oh my god.”

“So, he unzips his lunchbox and it’s just— overflowing with shit.” Y/N dropped her head into her hands, overcome with giggles. 

“And don’t forget the worst part: his mom was on the field trip!” Sam lamented, throwing her hands up. “I will never understand.”

Y/N lifted her head with an exasperated grin, and he wasn’t sure if it was the story or the fact that she loved him, but Spencer felt like he could float away into outer space. 

“I told you I had a lot of poop stories,” Y/N reminded him, drawing another round of laughs. As they composed themselves, the waiter came by their table to clear some of their plates and refill their water.

“God, I said we were keeping it low key, and then I drank half a pitcher,” Y/N complained, pushing back from the table. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

She gave Spencer a reassuring smile, and he tried not to panic as she stood and left him with Sam and Anita. And because the universe was toying with him, at that exact moment, Sam’s phone began to ring. She pulled it from her pocket with a sigh. 

“Shit— I’ve been waiting on this call all day.” She kissed Anita’s cheek and stood from the table. “So sorry; I’ll just be five minutes, I promise.”

With that, it was just the two of them, staring intently at their water glasses. Spencer was certain he should say something, but he wasn’t sure what. Anita broke the silence first. 

“You know what’s annoying?”

Spencer wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Considering that the issues one might classify as an annoyance vary for each individual person, there are over seven billion potential answers to that question.”

Anita tilted her head with an unimpressed purse of her lips. Spencer hedged, “And I understand now that it was probably rhetorical.”

“I actually kind of like you.” She leaned across the table with an irritated sigh. “I wanted to hate you, but I don’t.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m, um— I’m glad to hear that.”

“You’re good for her. Smart, humble, kind. Enamored with her, as you should be,” she deadpanned. She dropped her chin into her hand. “Almost as hot as she is.”

He laughed a little at that. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” She dropped her hand back to the table. She still didn’t crack a smile, and her gaze bore into him. “I don’t know how much you know about Owen, and she’d probably kill me for saying anything. But he was a real piece of shit.”

This was not the direction he thought this conversation would take. He didn’t know anything about Owen; he’d tried not to think too much about anyone Y/N might have been with before him. 

“It didn’t start out that way.” She drew her brows together. “Well, I don’t know— maybe he was always an asshole, and he was just good at hiding it.”

She shook her head and leaned back in her chair. “The point is, I didn’t know he was treating her like garbage until it was too late. He was already all…” She gestured wildly around her head. “In her head, telling her lies about herself, fucking her up, isolating her. For years he did that. And then it took her years to get him out of her head. To— unlearn all the lies. To build herself back up.” 

He could see her grinding her teeth, trying to calm down. He was intensely grateful to not be on the receiving end of Anita’s wrath. He was also immensely glad that Y/N had a friend like that. And his blood absolutely boiled at the thought of her ever feeling anything less than adored. 

“You’re a fed or whatever, so I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she continued, “but I would love nothing more than to put that fucker six feet under.” She ran her hand through her hair, and when she continued her voice was the quietest he’d ever heard it. “All that to say, I… I wasn’t there for her when Owen was destroying her from the inside out. And I will never let that happen again.” 

Anita locked eyes with him and her voice was resolved. “I like you, Spencer. And I want to keep it that way. So, just— don’t give me a reason not to.”

She didn’t drop her gaze, and he couldn’t quite think of the appropriate response. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His brain was still fixated on the idea that anyone had ever hurt the loveliest and kindest woman he’d ever met.

“Where’s Sam?” Spencer turned just as Y/N slid back into the chair beside him, a comforting hand coming to rest on his knee. 

“Some bullshit from the office that her idiot partner can’t handle.” Anita raised her eyebrows at Spencer, and he nodded minutely. She shifted her gaze back to Y/N with a grin. “Don’t worry. I didn’t scare him too much.”

…

“Easy.” Spencer steadied Y/N with a hand on her waist as they made the way up the stairs to his apartment. 

“Jesus, I’m so sorry. I just— really can’t drink like I used to.” She clutched a little at the railing, and he held his breath until they were at the top of the stairs. 

He slipped an arm back around her waist as they crossed to his apartment door, fumbling with his keys and fighting back a shiver as she snuggled close and ran her hand low over his tummy. 

“Can’t believe I’m tipsy from a couple margaritas.”

“To be fair, you had four,” he chuckled, turning the key and pushing open the door. 

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “But I used to be able to have a whole pitcher and be totally fine.”

“A pitcher?” Spencer laughed as he locked the door and turned to face her. “I can’t even have one without being completely incapacitated.”

She ran her hands up from his waistband, over his chest, and wrapped them around his neck. “Mmm, so you’re a lightweight.”

“Very much so,” he confirmed, bringing his hands to her hips. 

“Just one more sweet thing to love about you, sugar.” 

He couldn’t stop the smile from stretching across his face at the endearment, the way that North Carolina dripped syrupy and thick over every syllable. She pulled him down to meet her in a sweet kiss, quickly deepening it as he dug his fingers into the softness of her hips. Her hands wound into his hair, tugging lightly and holding him close. 

He broke away to rest his forehead against hers and catch his breath. She laced their fingers together and leaned on him while she kicked off her shoes. He toed his own off and then allowed her to lead him toward his bedroom. 

She sat him down on the edge of the bed and straddled his lap, bringing her hands up to tangle in his curls once again. 

Before she could lean in for another kiss, he murmured, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous,” she teased, ghosting her lips over his.

“Ha, ha.” Part of him wanted to bring up Owen, but she was so happy and warm and comfortable in this moment. He didn’t want to ruin this night of celebration. He didn’t want to ruin this day that had been so full of love. They had plenty of time to discuss Owen. 

He wrapped his arms around her middle. “You’ve met Penelope. I’ve met Anita. Now that the school year is over… we could tell Michael.”

She pulled back, and the smile she gave him could only be described as radiant, and he knew he made the right decision. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

…

A week later, the pair of them were strolling up the sidewalk to the LaMontagne house. Will and JJ were long overdue for a date night, and Spencer had jumped at the opportunity for the two of them to babysit. When they reached the door, Spencer rang the bell and Y/N waited slightly behind him. 

They could hear the joy from behind the door before it even opened, Michael’s high pitched giggle and Will’s booming laugh. Spencer was already leaning down in preparation, and Michael absolutely launched into his arms as soon as the door swung open. Spencer clocked the moment that Michael spotted her, purely because he practically squealed and squirmed right out of Spencer’s grip. 

“I knew it!” Michael cried. 

He wrapped himself around Y/N’s legs and squeezed tightly, and she rubbed a hand over his hair with a bewildered smile. Michael broke away to turn back to Will with a grin. “I told you.”

“You did, buddy.” Will gave Spencer a lopsided smile as Michael tugged Y/N forward by the hand. “Michael had an… inklin’ that uncle Spencer might be friends with Ms. Y/L/N.”

“Not friends, Daddy,” Michael said exasperatedly. “He’s her boyfriend.”

“Oh, excuse me, sorry.” Will held his hands up in apology as he stepped aside to let them all in the door. “Michael had a feelin’ that uncle Spencer might be Ms. Y/L/N’s boyfriend.”

Y/N’s cheeks had turned a very pretty shade of pink. “What— um, what made you think that?” 

Michael waited patiently for her to take off her shoes. “Well firstly, he started picking me up all the time, which was nice but weird. And then he wouldn’t stop asking about you. It was kind of annoying.” Spencer made a choking sound, and Will stifled a laugh. 

“You guys wear the same shoes, and you both love Halloween and tea and reading. I knew you’d like him if he could be a guest reader.” As he led her into the living room, Michael continued, “Oh, and you wore his purple scarf. He doesn’t let anyone wear the purple scarf.”

Spencer vividly remembered that morning— she’d slept over after a midweek date night in April. The temperatures in DC had plummeted overnight, and the outfit she’d brought left her woefully under-dressed for the chilly spring day. He’d wrapped her up in the soft, purple scarf without a second thought. 

She caught his eye with a shrug, and Will tried not to look too smug. Spencer watched her be dragged further into the house, turning to Will with a sheepish smile.

“Well, guess I can’t take all the credit,” Will decided. “Who knew we had a mini matchmaker this whole time?”

Spencer huffed out a laugh as Michael pulled Y/N into the playroom. “This is the best,” Michael sighed. “Now we can play restaurant forever.”

…

Spencer pulled his legs up in the tiny chair, resting his elbows on his knees and taking a moment to watch the scene in front of him unfold. Usually on nights like this, Michael ran him ragged with demands for magic tricks, story time, and playing pretend. Tonight, he’d actually been able to catch up with middle school (middle school!) Henry, because Michael was totally and completely enthralled by Y/N. 

She was helping with the last of the setup for the “restaurant,” organizing Michael’s menus and straightening his clip-on tie. Of course he’d seen her with kids before. But something about being in this playroom— one that he’d spent so many hours in, watching two of his favorite kids grow up— had him feeling warm from head to toe. 

Henry had bounded down the stairs at the news that uncle Spencer was dating his former kindergarten teacher. He hadn’t realized that she’d taught Henry, too, although with the timeline of her teaching career he should have put two and two together. The generally reserved middle schooler had positively beamed when she gasped out, “Gosh, I always forget how tall you’ve gotten!”

And now three of his absolute favorite humans were in one room, and he couldn’t stop smiling. 

“Hen!” Michael called. 

Henry turned from his spot in the chair across from Spencer. “What?”

“You’re the chef,” Michael informed him. 

Y/N tilted her head. “I thought I was the chef?”

“No, no, no.” Michael pushed her toward the kid-sized table. “You and uncle Spencer are on a fancy date.”

Henry rolled his eyes playfully and stood from the chair, pulling it out for her like a perfect gentleman. She beamed at him and gave him a wink. “Thank you, sir.”

She dropped lightly into the chair across from Spencer and laughed a little at his folded limbs. “You look very comfortable.” 

He laughed and stretched his legs out straight. “The picture of comfort, really. These chairs were clearly designed with six foot men in mind.”

“I’m sorry I’m so under-dressed for our fancy dinner date,” she teased, dropping her chin into her hand. 

“You look stunning, as always.” He gestured to the messy braid Michael had folded her hair into. “I especially love what you’re doing with your hair.”

She sucked in a dramatic breath, bringing up her hand to pat lightly at her hair. “You’re making me blush, doctor.” She peeked behind her and then lowered her voice. “I’m probably going to cry when I try to brush the rats out.” 

He looked at her sympathetically. “I know the feeling. I think I’ve got a wide tooth comb, and I can help. I’ve gotten pretty good at detangling Michael’s handiwork.”

Before she could respond, Michael made his way to the table, holding a dish towel over his arm. “Good evening, sir, madam.” 

“Good evening,” they chorused, with barely suppressed grins. 

“Compliments of the chef.” Michael held out his hand to reveal two slightly smushed strawberries.

“Oh, wow,” Y/N said, eyes wide and gesturing to Spencer. “Honey, do you want to—”

Spencer waved his hand, eyeing the berries warily. “No, no, please, help yourself.”

Y/N held back a smile and accepted the strawberries, holding them carefully in her hand and turning her attention back to Michael. “Thank you so much. What a wonderful appetizer. Could we hear the specials?”

That helped Michael remember the menus, and he pulled them from his pocket and cleared his throat. He handed them the construction paper menus. “Our specials tonight are roasted octopus and a steak tartar.”

From the kitchen, Henry mumbled, “Tartare.” 

“Tartare. Steak tartare is our special,” Michael corrected. 

“Hmm, I don’t know if I’m that adventurous. Maybe my boyfriend is though,” Y/N told a grinning Michael. “What do you recommend for a picky eater?”

“My favorite is the chicken nuggets.”

“Well then, sign me up. One order of chicken nuggets.” Y/N handed him the menu. 

Spencer was still perusing the menu for Le Chateau LaMontagne. He smiled at Michael’s handwriting, but particularly at the places where he could tell Y/N had helped. “Everything looks delicious,” he finally decided, “but, you know... I think I’m also going to have the nuggets.”

…

When the boys were finally in bed, Spencer and Y/N settled down in the living room to untangle the mess of her hair. She sat on the floor in between his legs as he gently pulled each braid strand free. He smiled at the way she arched up into his touch, shivering when his fingers brushed over her neck. 

“You’re lucky,” he remarked, laying the last braid strand back into its original place. “Michael seems to have gotten a little better at braiding.”

She leaned her head back into his hands. “You detangled the whole thing?”

“Mmhm.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. She brought her hands up to hold him against her, trying to deepen the kiss before laughing at the awkward angle and giving up. 

He sat up as she stood and moved to the couch, snuggling up close to him and tucking herself under his arm. “I’m very lucky,” she agreed. “For many reasons.”

Her hand drifted to rest on his tummy, her fingers immediately tracing little shapes over the fabric of his shirt. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “And tired, too.”

“Hmm?” 

He leaned his cheek against her head. “When you get tired, you, um— you start drawing on my stomach.” 

Her finger paused. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” She shifted to raise her head to look at him, and he shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’ve just— noticed.”

She smiled a little sleepily. “You know I love all of you. But I— well, I don’t know, really. I just like your tummy.” She gave it a quick squeeze. “It’s just— nice and comfy and perfect for resting on.” 

He covered her hand with his own and leaned forward to press their mouths together. She drew his bottom lip in between her own, sucking a little and then giving it a quick peck before pulling back and stifling a yawn into his chest. “Man, I am tired.” She snuggled back into him and resumed her tummy tracing. “What, um— what else have you noticed?”

He rubbed his hand down her arm and pulled her impossibly closer. “You like to play with my hair.”

“Mmmm, guilty as charged.”

He smiled at the sleep creeping into her voice. “I like it, too.” He ran his fingers up to her shoulder, and then back down to the crook of her arm, soothing her closer to sleep. “Hmmmm. You always have at least one point of contact on my body at all times. It’s usually your hands, but sometimes it’s your head or even your toes— like when you tuck them under my leg.”

“Ugh— I’m sorry. Clingy and putting my feet on you,” she mumbled.

She might have been joking, but Anita’s words were replaying in his head. He couldn’t change what had happened in the past. He couldn’t go back and prevent her from being hurt by someone else. But he could be different in every way. He could be open and honest and vulnerable with her like he’d promised. 

“I’m not sorry. I love all of you,” he murmured, pulling her in closer and repeating her words back to her. 

“Even my feet?” 

He could also show her that there was absolutely nothing that he didn’t love about her. “Especially your feet.”

She huffed a sigh into his chest. “Y’got a foot thing I don’t know about?”

He laughed a little at that. “Only for yours. They’re very cute feet.”

“You’re weird,” she muttered, but she hugged him tighter when she said it.

“You love it.”

Her fingers on his tummy had come to rest comfortably just above his waistband, and he knew she was on the very edge of sleep. “Mmhm. Love you.”

He thought of all the little moments over the past few months.

Doesn’t live up to expectations? Sorry for overstepping. Are we dating? Sorry for being clingy. Sorry for taking so long to tell you. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

“I love you, too,” he murmured. “So much.”

———

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[pascalpanic]

“You can call me whenever you want… Even if you don’t have a reason to.” with Javi 😩 OR marcus moreno bc I think it fits him too

Personal Number (Javier Peña x f!Reader)

Summary: You’re lonely working as the American ambassador’s secretary. You miss the days of being down with the agents as a receptionist. At least you get to talk with Javier Peña on the phone somewhat often.

W/C: 1.5k

Warnings: language, brief mentions of sexual content. this is pretty tame.

A/N: I LOVE JAVIER. can you tell?? thank you for this idea Thea!!! I love it so much and I hope you like it too. Also, can you tell I like writing phone calls? I just think it’s so fun and a medium that isn’t covered super often.

it’s definitely not because I like not having to write about body language or action.

Javier Peña was a flirt. You knew that from the start, from the stories you’d heard from the other women around the embassy. He was cute, you admitted. Tight shirts and equally slim-fitting jeans, dark hair, lean and strong. He walked with power in his stance.

You liked him. He was a nice man, respectful. He flirted with everyone, but he never went too far. Sure, he’d slept with a solid chunk of the women who worked here, but he was supposedly a wonderful lover. His methods were unorthodox in the field, but he got what he needed. He was incredibly clever, setting up traps and getting information by any means necessary. You talked occasionally, when he’d stop by because you had a message for him at the receptionist desk. He was good for conversation. He liked the cinnamon candies you kept on your desk.

The other women talked with you more than he did. You and the other women chatted, ate lunch together. The rare female presence was much appreciated in such a testosterone-laden environment. You all got along well. Even compared stories of sleeping with certain agents, how their skills at finding the clit ranked, how snuggly they were after, how receptive they were to certain acts. It was fun.

Javier was a busy man. The phone on his desk rarely rang. If someone needed someone around the embassy, they went and talked to them in person. It was an excuse to get away from your desk, people figured. You rarely used the phone too, even as a receptionist. You’d answer calls when they came, but they were usually directed other places, with specific extensions. People here were more direct.

That was before you’d been appointed as the ambassador’s secretary. It was an honor. It meant you were good at your job. You’d taken it, bragging to the other girls over lunch. Everyone was excited for you.

The job, you found out, was dry. It consists most days of making phone calls. Stechner, Ambassador wants you. Ambassador? Stechner’s here. Yep. I’ll let him in. Hi, we’ll take three orders of arepas- sorry, yes sir? Scratch that, he wants four. And can you throw in a coffee- one second, yes sir? Got it- with four creams and two sugars.

You doodle on a notepad many days. You read newspapers or reports. You proofread memos for the ambassador before he sends them off to someone important. It’s draining and dry and you have to admit you hate it.

“Peña,” a voice answers the phone.

“Hi Javier. Are you busy?” You ask.

He smiles a little as he hears your voice, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “When am I ever around here?” He asks, and you chuckle.

“I know the feeling.”

The two of you had talked a few times before. He was nice enough, if curt. Usually, he was busy. People only came to you when they needed something as a receptionist, and now even more so as a private secretary.

“How’s the promotion treating you?” He asks. He’d heard word as he talked with others. Noticed your spot was empty for a day or two before being replaced by another woman. He missed the little candies you kept on your desk. You always kept cinnamon disks stocked in a separate jar from the seasonal candies for him.

“It’s… good,” you nod, drawing a little fish on your notepad. “Kind of feels like a demotion sometimes. It’s boring up here. And lonely. I miss being around to talk with people.”

“We miss you,” he admits with a smile. “You still keep those cinnamon candies on your desk up there?”

You shake your head, holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder. “No. Ambassador doesn’t like them, so I switched over. I did get some new fun caramel flavored stuff though.”

“Damn,” he chuckles.

“Would it make you come up here if I had them?”

“I may have to visit the ambassador more often if you did,” he teases, and you chuckle softly. “Poor little social butterfly, cooped up on the highest floor, away from humanity.”

“I do feel like Rapunzel some days,” you sigh, still smiling. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I was supposed to ask if you were busy for the ambassador, not for myself. He wants to see you if you have a minute.”

“Yeah, I’ve got time. Right now?”

“Right now.”

You can hear shuffling on the other end. “Let me put my signature on one more paper and I’ll be up.” He hangs up and you sigh. There was the most interaction you’ll get for the day.

-

It seems that the closer the men get to Escobar, the more the ambassador needs to see Murphy and Peña. You don’t mind. The two men are funny, and the way they interact makes you smile.

Peña talks to you more than Murphy. Steve is more likely to go outside to smoke, while Javier smokes at his desk. That means you dial him more often simply because there’s a higher probability he’s at his desk. Not because you enjoy talking with him more.

The two men had picked up on calling you Rapunzel. Your energy and excitement was draining day by day, and they compared your new position outside of the ambassador’s office, high on the top floor of the embassy, to Rapunzel’s tower.

You playfully called them Javi and Stephen in return to annoy both of them. It didn’t work on Javier. It turned out he liked that, and you could tell by the way his voice softened. So you kept that.

“Peña.”

“Guess who?” you ask dryly, tapping your pen against your notepad.

The man chuckles. “You must be having an exciting day up there. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Ha.” The word is humorless and flat. “Ambassador wants to see you two.”

Javier groans. “Kind of busy.”

“Well, I’ll tell him that,” you nod and write down on a legal pad- separate from your doodling pad- Peña busy. 11:30. “How are things going down there today?”

“Annoying. Steve is a pain in my ass- hey, shut the fuck up,” you can hear him say even as he removes the receiver away from his phone. You giggle at that, smiling as he speaks again. “Sorry. Can you guess who that was?”

“What was he saying this time?” You ask, twirling the cord to the phone around your finger.

“Nothing,” he insists, but you can hear Murphy shouting. Some message he’s trying to get to you.

“Well, alright. Call up when you’re less busy,” you ask him and hang up.

You really want to know what Murphy was going on about. You dial his desk and he picks up. “S’this Rapunzel?” A southern accent twangs.

“Of course,” you chuckle. “What were you shouting into Javi’s phone?”

“Oh, nothing. Oh, hey, wait,” he says, pulling the phone down and pressing it to his chest. You can hear the muffled voices of the two men, but not what they’re saying. He puts it back to his ear quickly after. “Anyway, it’s nothing. We’ll call you back when we’ve got a minute to come up.”

Odd, you think, before going back to your work on your desk.

-

The phone rings again an hour later. “Ambassador’s office,” you say with a gentle lilt to your voice.

“Hey, Rapunzel,” a kind but rough voice speaks through the phone. Javi.

“Hey,” you chuckle a little. “You guys ready to come up?”

“Uh, no, not yet. But I do want you to write something down for me.”

“Anything,” you nod, priming your pen above the piece of paper.

Javier rattles off ten numbers, and you diligently write them down on the paper. You repeat it back and he affirms that it’s correct. “Got it. What is it?”

“It’s my personal phone number.”

“Javi, the ambassador already has your phone number.”

“No, I know. It’s for you.”

Oh. Your heart flutters excitedly in your chest, causing you to let out a soft giggle.

“I like talking with you. Our phone calls are the highlight of my day. You can call me whenever you want… even if you don’t have a reason to. I just… like hearing your voice. I like you.”

You clutch the paper, grinning ear to ear. “Well, I like you too, Javi. I’ll be using this,” you assure him, looking down at it and beaming. “Now, you said you’re busy. Get back to work.”

“Yes ma’am. See you in a bit.”

Click. Dial tone. Your heart fills with sparks and little fireworks, sending you into a loud laugh of excitement.

The thick oak doors swing open. The ambassador looks at you with concern. “Everything alright out here?” He asks you.

You nod, biting your lip and looking down to hide your grin. “Yeah, yeah. Great, sir. Peña and Murphy aren’t ready yet. They’ll be up later.”

The man gives you a nod and closes the door behind him.

The grin returns. You trace the freshly-dried ink, the nine numbers that will connect you directly to Javier at any time you want. You pull your contact book from your purse, sitting beneath your desk, flipping to a clean page.

Javier Peña, you write.

xxx-xxx-xxxx

personal number

You go back and draw a small heart next to his name.

[eatprayworm]

rongzhi fic: the red sea of your rage

Relationships: Ding Rong/Wang Zhi

Rating: T

Words: 3.9k

Additional Tags: Whump, references to violence, wang zhi gets hurt and ding rong acts as you would expect, aka he loses his shit

Summary: Canon divergent fic that asks what if Wan Tong did set the brothel on fire? Title and end quote taken from “A Strand of Hair” by José Tolentino Mendonça.

There’s so much straw.

It’s all Ding Rong can think as two guards work on distributing more straw along the perimeter of the brothel. The heat of the sun beats upon them as they add another row, a field of gold. Sweat beads along Ding Rong’s brow. Meanwhile, all is quiet inside.

How long has it been since the thieves first showed-off Wang Zhi on the balcony? Minutes? Hours? Time slips through his fingers like sand. Every failed attempt to negotiate deepens the cracks; he buys Wang Zhi time but he can’t buy him salvation, and soon, he fears, they will have neither.

Darkness swallows the sky.

They’re running out of time.

Tang Fan’s appearance is grating, and he feels himself scowl behind Tang Fan’s back. Ding Rong has stood here for hours, has thrown his body in front of a dozen archers, but it’s Tang Fan, the poisoned scholar, who can freely walk inside. He bites his tongue, reminds himself that the goal is to save Wang Zhi; if Tang Fan can do what Ding Rong cannot, then that is the way it will have to be.

The night grows chillier. There’s still no sound from inside.

And then Wan Tong is lighting the torch.

Ding Rong sucks in a breath, stares at the dancing flames and smug look on the Commander’s face as he prowls forward.

“Wan-daren, don’t!”

Another failed attempt. His words fall uselessly to the ground, trampled beneath the feet of a callous man who wants to watch the world burn.

Commander Wan doesn’t say a word when he lowers the torch to the bundle of straw just outside the brothel doors. The straw catches flame easily, burning slow but steady. That’s fine, Ding Rong thinks; this gives Wang Zhi time to see the smoke and make it outside before the whole place is up in flames. But then Commander Wan is walking, all but dragging the lit torch against the wall of straw, and suddenly the fire’s crackling, growing, wheezing heavy smoke through the door and windows.

There’s a scream inside, followed by guttural yelling - and then all Ding Rong can hear is the roar of the flames, which devour the straw and then turn their destruction to the brothel itself. Ding Rong has no attachment to the brothel, but Wang Zhi does; he’ll hate to see the destruction when he comes out.

(Because it’s when, not if.)

“Seize the kidnappers! Shoot them if you must!” Wan Tong yells. “Don’t let them escape.”

Ding Rong’s jaw tics. He wants to warn the archers against shooting the others (Wang Zhi), but the sight of the fire ties his tongue.

Smoke’s billowing out the open brothel door (how much of the inside has already been burned?) when the first group of people rush out. Courtesans, their bright clothing smudged with ash, covering their mouths and coughing. More and more, and then there’s Madam Cui at the end. She’s hacking hard, eyes squinting as she checks on her girls.

There’s no sign of Wang Zhi.

One kidnapper, two. Arrows pierce their sorry hides, sending them crumpling to the ground. Another roars out, wielding a sword dripping in fresh blood. He too is struck down, but all Ding Rong can think is that none of the women appear injured - whose blood has been shed?

Fists clench at his side, slick with sweat. It’s fine. Wang Zhi will appear any moment. Jia Kui is with him, after all.

Each second feels like a lifetime. The fire climbs the brothel, floor after floor catching alight, and Ding Rong knows that once it reaches the roof, it’s all but over. A flash of movement at the door sends his heart to his throat (Wang Zhi?) but it’s only Sui Zhou, carrying a limp bundle of Tang Fan in his arms. There’s blood dripping from Tang Fan’s lips, but as Sui Zhou carefully lowers Tang Fan to the ground, Ding Rong can’t detect any wound, nor does Sui Zhou make a move to stop any bleeding. And then their doctor swoops in, blocking Ding Rong’s view, and his heart goes cold.

Wang Zhi is -

There’s a crash inside the brothel, a beam succumbing to the flame, and Ding Rong propels himself forward without thought. He’s dimly aware of Commander Wan yelling at him, slightly cognizant of the kidnapper who nearly runs into Ding Rong in his hurry to get out, and then he disappears in the plumes of black smoke.

Tears flood his half-narrowed eyes as he lifts a sleeve to his face, trying to manage his breath as he looks around to the best of his ability. It’s hard to see, even as he ducks down and starts moving as quickly as he can. He nearly stumbles over something soft (a body, but not the one he’s looking for). Smoke and ash, luxury devoured to flame, bodies left to become dust with the building, and Ding Rong will sooner die than allow Wang Zhi to become one of them.

“Ding-daren!”

Voices of soldiers, Wang Zhi’s men, who have followed him in. Ding Rong doesn’t respond, trusts them to follow him in deeper and conduct their own search. They go the opposite way, a path which proves fruitful; they bellow not even a minute later.

“Ding-daren, we’ve found Jia Kui!”

Ding Rong’s heart leaps to his throat then sinks to his stomach in the span of seconds. Not Wang Zhi. He’s tempted to tell the men to leave him; Wang Zhi is the priority. But Jia Kui may be able to provide information on the situation - and he owes Ding Rong an explanation for how this happened. He can’t die yet; Ding Rong will not allow it.

“Get him and get out!” Ding Rong barks, though it ends in a coughing fit.

The footsteps fall back just as quickly as they arrived, and he is alone again.

He wants to scream, wants to call Wang Zhi’s name until his lungs give out, but he cannot risk inhaling more smoke than he already is, and so he only coughs, trudging forward further. There’s so many bodies.

He nearly misses him.

Ding Rong is debating climbing the stairs and calculating his survival odds when he hazards a glance to the left, and there, there - beside a burning beam, a familiar form in once-pale robes, curled up face-down.

He doesn’t remember the next few seconds. There’s smoldering debris in his way, blocking the body, and he rips it away with his hands, ignoring the smell of burned flesh as his heart pounds because Wang Zhi.  

Wang Zhi’s back is a mess of fiery robe, burnt skin, and crusted blood, and Ding Rong doesn’t even know if he’s alive, just knows he has to get him out. He lifts his Commander in his arms (Wang Zhi feels so much lighter), adrenaline soothing over his own burns as he steadies Wang Zhi and turns toward the door.

It’s growing harder to see, and not just because of the smoke. The world blurs, tears and dizziness, and Ding Rong nearly topples over at one point. But adrenaline keeps him upright, loyalty drives him to the entrance, until he bursts from the brothel and gulps for air like a drowning man.

*

It’s a blur from there on out. Later, Ding Rong will recall screaming for assistance as he desperately searches for a sign of life in his Commander. He will remember the force of relief when he finds Wang Zhi’s pulse, soft but undeniable, and the way his arms and legs shake when he gets them both in the carriage. He’ll remember touching Wang Zhi’s face with his burnt fingers, murmuring his name like a prayer, bidding him to wake up.

The depot. The rush of imperial doctors who cart Wang Zhi away, and the one who nearly hauls Ding Rong to his own recovery room to be treated. Ding Rong barely remembers this: the cleaning of his burns, the bandages wrapped around each hand. His mind replays a single fear, a plea of but what if I lose him for good this time, now that he’s out of my sight?

*

He ignores the doctor’s advice to rest, shrugs off the cups of water the depot servants offer him. The audacity of these men, thinking Ding Rong will rest when Wang Zhi is a few rooms down, in an unknown condition.

There’s other work to be done, of course. Reports to write. Interrogations to be had. But the administrative logistics that Ding Rong mastered over the years don’t feel so important now, the instinctive efficiency washed away by something frightening.

Frightening. Yes, Ding Rong thinks, the realization startling. He is afraid.

He pushes past the servants who implore him to wait, because waiting is the only thing he’s done this whole damn day and it’s yielded him nothing. He finds Wang Zhi’s room guarded, the trio’s faces stony and impassive, and Ding Rong nearly commands them to move aside.

It’s the urgent murmuring of the doctors that keeps him still.

You’ll only be in the way.

And so he clenches his jaw and paces, paces, paces.

*

Wang Zhi’s scream rattles the walls, and something in Ding Rong shatters.

*

It’s the middle of the night when the guards finally part, allowing the doctors to leave. Ding Rong is in front of them in the blink of an eye. One of the doctors exhales a heavy breath, the wrinkles near his eyes deepening. Ding Rong swallows hard and it feels like knives.

The doctors deliver facts with the kind of efficiency Ding Rong has lost. Each word hits him like a punch.

Resting. Minor stab wound to the shoulder, bruises to his face. Back burned; it will scar.

Ding Rong’s blood has started heating up when the doctor finishes, “He has a long road ahead of him.”

Ding Rong can read between the lines. Wang Zhi may need weeks, maybe months of recovery. And even then, he’ll never fully heal.

There’s another question Ding Rong wants to ask. Maybe the doctors can see it in his eyes, because one finally speaks up, “You may see him, but he’s heavily sedated and should stay that way for a while.”

His brow furrows a fraction; there’s something they aren’t telling him.

Again, the doctors are one step ahead of him. They look at Ding Rong with something close to pity.

“He woke up in the middle of treatment and thought he was still burning in the brothel.”

The world in front of him blurs, colors melding together as he struggles to stay on his feet.

Wang Zhi was panicking and Ding Rong wasn’t there for him.

He’s barely aware of thanking the doctors, who bow and take their leave, and he is once again alone.

He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and walks into the room.

There’s a low, desolate moan; it takes Ding Rong a second before he realizes it’s coming from his own throat.

Wang Zhi is lying on his side, facing away from Ding Rong - leaving Ding Rong with the perfect view of his bruised, bandaged back. Ding Rong draws closer, barely cognizant of his own actions; he dimly registers pain in his knees as he all but collapses at Wang Zhi’s side. Now that he’s closer, he can see the extent of the damage: the scratches, the already purpling bruises, the gnarled flesh that peeks out from the confines of the bandages’ edes. The sedative must be working, Ding Rong notes, because Wang Zhi’s breathing is steady and even as he sleeps.

The relief Ding Rong first felt when learning Wang Zhi was alive has dwindled, overshadowed by a burning, gnawing anger. As a habit, Ding Rong doesn’t humor the idea of regrets; living in the past impedes the efficiency of the present. But here, curled up beside the small, injured body of his Commander, Ding Rong permits himself remorse for this transgression. Such an utter abysmal failure in duty, such an unacceptable, avoidable cost. If he could transfer those injuries to his own body, he would do so without hesitation.

But such are the fantasies of the fortunate and the foolish. Ding Rong compartmentalizes the regret just as quickly as it initially sparked, a stone to drown himself with later when Wang Zhi is on the mend.

He refocuses on Wang Zhi, watches the rise and fall of his side as he sleeps, just to anchor himself, remind himself Wang Zhi is alive. He’d stay here all night if he could, keeping watch the way he could not before.

Mostly, he wishes he could touch him.

“Wang Zhi,” Ding Rong murmurs, calling his name like an apology, like a prayer, more emotion than syllable.

The Commander doesn’t stir. Ding Rong knew he wouldn’t, but still feels the sting of disappointment.

Ding Rong’s not sure how long he sits before he finally pulls himself to his feet. He brings his burned, bandaged hands together and bows, back bent in both contrition and purpose.

(He may have failed Wang Zhi at the brothel, but he won’t fail him now.)

Ding Rong straightens, and after a final long look, briskly takes his leave.

He has work to do.

*

The next morning, Ding Rong visits Jia Kui.

The man looks worse for the wear, sitting on a bed with his arm in a splint and breaths tinted with a wheeze. Ding Rong strides up to his bedside with no preamble, no pleasantries.

“What happened?” he barks.

Jia Kui gives Ding Rong a look, one that initially seems affronted by the clipped tone, but then quickly softens to something more complicated.

“Tang Fan was succeeding in de-escalating the situation. But once the fire lit and spread,” Jia Kui says, pausing to cough, “they attacked.”

Ding Rong’s jaw tightens as he sends a silent curse to Wan Tong. “Where were you?”

“In the shadows. Wang-daren directed me to stay hidden,” Jia Kui explains. “I did, until they attacked. Managed to kill two of them and get Wang-daren before they could hurt him. By then the room filled with smoke and the thieves were trying to kill as many as they could on their way out.”

“Surely you were not outclassed by a few rogue men,” Ding Rong says with a sneer.

Jia Kui’s laugh is gritty and hollow, followed by another cough.

“Have you ever fought in pure smoke, Ding-daren?” Jia Kui’s slight smile is unpleasant and humorless. “In a burning building, tripping over bodies, all while trying to protect someone?”

Ding Rong wants to snap, to scream that it doesn’t matter, he was supposed to protect Wang Zhi at all cost.  He shoves the irrationality down and reminds himself he’s here for information, not simply to vent his anger.

“So they attacked you,” Ding Rong continues, more a statement than a question.

Jia Kui nods, and he heaves a long, regretful breath. “Wang-daren and I were separated. I was knocked unconscious. Next thing I knew, I woke up here.”

Silence fills the space between them as Ding Rong digests this story. Wang Zhi was unharmed when Jia Kui rescued him, so any damages must have come when Wang Zhi was alone, disoriented in smoke.

Cowards, Ding Rong seethes. He clenches his hands, ignores the agonizing ache of his own injuries. Their deaths came far too swiftly.

Ding Rong turns without so much as a goodbye. He’s taken five steps forward when he hears Jia Kui say, “Ding-daren, there’s something else you should know.”

He pauses, sends a glance over his shoulder to the wounded guard. Jia Kui’s expression is born of shadows.

“One of them is still alive.”

*

The days go by. Ding Rong maintains order at the Western Depot, managing daily operations and fending off the presence of Shang Ming, whose questions about Wang Zhi’s conditions are far from innocent.

Every night after work, he visits Wang Zhi.

The doctors assure Ding Rong that Wang Zhi is doing as well as one could expect, given the severity of the injuries. They’ve been successful in staving off infection so far, which will be crucial for his healing going forward.

Sometimes Ding Rong recaps the day to Wang Zhi’s sleeping form, complaining about the nuisance of Shang Ming and commending the diligence of some of the workers. Other days, he sits beside him in silence, content just to be at his side.

Please wake up.

*

Days later, Wang Zhi does just that.

Ding Rong is sitting in a chair at his side, mind wandering, when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Wang Zhi’s face scrunches, his head lifting up as he stirs from his slumber. Ding Rong all but leaps forward, the chair tipping backward, forgotten, as he crouches at the bedside. His heart pounds, vision blurring - and when Wang Zhi opens his eyes and meets Ding Rong’s gaze, Ding Rong huffs a short, choppy breath in disbelief and hope.

“Du-gong?” he asks, soft and tentative in a way he would be ashamed of in any other circumstance.

Wang Zhi groans, runs his tongue along his dry, cracked lips.

“Rong’er,” Wang Zhi croaks, and something in Ding Rong that’s been dammed up bursts forward, flooding his entire being, body and soul.

Before he can drown in it, Wang Zhi’s expression shifts, as if he remembers where he is and what happened. Ding Rong aches to see fear replace confusion; he has never seen him look so small.

“You weren’t there,” Wang Zhi whispers, voice trembling.

Three little words, three little knives that go straight to Ding Rong’s heart. He isn’t sure which of them makes a mournful little sound as he shuffles closer, murmurs urgently, “I’m here now, Wang du-dong.”

Wang Zhi snuffles against the pillow, face softening, appeased. Ding Rong direly wishes to be struck down for ever instilling this fear in his Commander.

Ding Rong bows low, forehead touching the floor. He keeps his breathing steady as he confesses, “I failed you and deserve to die for it.”

From somewhere above him, Wang Zhi makes a displeased, tired sound. “No, you don’t.”

Ding Rong remains motionless, eyes shut tight. It’s not true, of course, and Ding Rong is halfway convinced Wang Zhi is simply saying this because he’s still under the effects of the sedatives. He won’t fight Wang Zhi about this, however - not with words, anyway. His body posture conveys the only rebuttal he needs.

A few seconds pass, and Wang Zhi exhales a breathy little sound. “C’mere. Ding Rong.”

Ding Rong rises to his knees and then to his feet, keeping his eyes downcast as he shuffles closer. He kneels again, this time at Wang Zhi’s side.

“Ding Rong,” Wang Zhi repeats, a note of surprise coloring his name. Ding Rong lifts his gaze to meet Wang Zhi’s wounded one, and it’s only then does he notice the tears dribbling down his cheeks. He’d feel embarrassed if he didn’t feel so raw.

Wang Zhi extends a hand until it’s dangling off the bedside, reaching for Ding Rong - who can only clasp that small hand in one of his own, careful to keep his grip loose enough not to hurt, but tight enough to channel everything he wants to say into it. Wang Zhi’s lips twitch in a smile for a brief second. I’m glad I can still see your smile.

The smile quickly fades, and Wang Zhi releases his hand. Ding Rong mourns its absence already.

“You’re hurt,” Wang Zhi says, sounding accusatory, annoyed that Ding Rong didn’t tell him sooner.

Ding Rong shakes his head, both in disagreement and disbelief that Wang Zhi could find these wounds comparable to what he’s sustained. He takes Wang Zhi’s hand, ignores the pain, and holds on tight.

“It’s nothing.”

Wang Zhi doesn’t seem to buy it, his gaze skeptical, but his need for comfort must outweigh the annoyance. He doesn’t let go of his hand this time.

“It all happened so fast,” Wang Zhi mumbles.

Ding Rong gently squeezes Wang Zhi’s hand. “You don’t have to talk about it, du-gong.”

Wang Zhi hums, a tired, dazed sound like he didn’t hear Ding Rong. “I don’t remember some of it. The smoke. Jia Kui grabbing me.”

“Jia Kui,” Ding Rong spits, allowing venom to seep in his tone so Wang Zhi can know just what he presently thinks of the guard.

There’s a flash of Wang Zhi’s smile again, though it appears sadder than before, worn at the edges.

“It wasn’t Jia Kui’s fault,” Wang Zhi murmurs, running his fingers against Ding Rong’s hand as if Ding Rong is the one in need of soothing and reassurance. “If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead.”

Ding Rong pauses at that, surprised at the leniency. Had this happened a few months ago, Wang Zhi would’ve had Jia Kui executed immediately. But, he supposes, Wang Zhi isn’t the same person he was a few months ago; maybe neither of them are.

“Sir,” he murmurs in acknowledgement of Wang Zhi’s decision.

Wang Zhi shuffles, trying to get more comfortable. He hisses, bares his teeth in pain from moving. Ding Rong is about to fetch the doctors to apply more medicine when Wang Zhi’s expression yet again drops, painted in hues of fear and apprehension, as if the memories hit him with physical force.

“I couldn’t see them when they snatched me from Jia Kui. They took me and I think they stabbed me and then I -”

Wang Zhi cuts off there, an unpleasant shiver racking down his spine, which makes him groan again. Ding Rong gently hushes him, trying to soothe him. “It’s alright, du-gong. It’s over now.”

Through the pain and anxiety, curiosity shines like a light in Wang Zhi’s eyes.

He opens the prison chamber room and shuts the door behind him. The thief is already tied up to the post, and he eyes Ding Rong warily as he approaches the side table. Ding Rong says nothing, doesn’t even look at the scum. He takes out a pouch, and unrolls the fabric to reveal knives and other jagged tools.

The sound of the thief’s sharp inhale makes Ding Rong smile in sadistic satisfaction.

The apprehension on Wang Zhi’s face lingers, like he doesn’t quite believe it. Ding Rong squeezes Wang Zhi’s hand, gentle and reassuring.

“You’re - you’re Ding-daren, right? Look, I already told your assistants what happened! My brother, the one who hurt Wang-daren - he’s dead! They’re all dead. I didn’t touch him, Ding-daren, I swear -”

Ding Rong holds up a knife, inspects the way the torch’s flame gleams in the silver.

Knife in hand, he turns to the thief in one slow, fluid motion.

“I took care of it,” Ding Rong says.

“I don’t care.”

Another tiny smile twists the corners of Wang Zhi’s lips, soft and dreamy. Ding Rong finds himself mirroring the expression.

(The screams echoed down the halls. It took hours for his assistants to clean up all the blood and flesh.)

Assured, Wang Zhi falls back asleep, still clutching Ding Rong’s hand.

Ding Rong lifts their joined hands, presses his lips to the back of Wang Zhi’s fingers.

Later, he will clean his knives and tools, one by one, and think of the fire.

You set fire to cities

you drowned armies

in the red sea of your rage

you mortgaged precious lands

to be at my side

[floatinginwords]

Saved by the Devil (15/?) - Tommy Shelby

Summary: More stuff after Epsom and a bit of of Tommy pov. (im sorry about these summaries im terrible)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (Romantic)

Warning: Mention of death and blood.

A/N: Not my best but yea. im getting the hang back i think? i dont know...feedback would be great. thanks for reading and hope you all have a good day and are treating yourselves well. 

  The drive was quiet.  Neither of you two spoke and honesty you were glad for the silence. Your thoughts were loud enough as it is. Polly didn’t drive you far until she spoke or more like laughed. It sounded like a mad women’s laugh. Your stomach did flips as you could recall the laugh at your stay in the asylums from time to time. You don’t dare look at polly hoping her eyes stayed glued to the road. You didn’t want to see any glint of madness that was in her eyes. You didn’t want to ask any questions that might just pop out of your mouth. You had enough running through your mind. You had your own shit to go through.

Once you entered the city part you could see that the path polly was taking was to Adas. You didn’t want to go there.

“Polly, you can let me off here.” You say, looking at some random street corner.

She scoffs “Its getting dark and you wanna walk the rest of the way? I thought you were smarter than that.”

You don’t say anything. She continues speaking, “Just tell me where you wanna go.”

 “just pull over Here, Polly.” You say.

 She doesn’t say anything as she listens to your orders. She looks a bit annoyed but you don’t have to explain yourself. You leave the car and take one last look at Polly.

 “Thank you. I appreciate it.” You say.

 She nods. “You should call Tommy when you get home. Im sure he’ll want to hear from you.”

She starts the car and leaves you by yourself. You watch the car fade in the distance. You think of Thomas wondering if he’s dead or nt. You shake your head at the thought. You cant afford to think of that right now.

You walk the route that you’ve memorized that is Trinities place. Your there in no time. As you go through alleyways, hiding in the shadows, not wanting to take any chances. You know now that your paranoia was not just something to torture you.

You run up the stairs. Ready to pound on your best friends door, take what you needed and say a quick goodbye. But her door is ajar. You take the knife off your thigh holster, kicking your shoes off incase of a getaway and walk in slowly.

 The apartment is a mess. Books and glass litter the floor. Furniture is upside down. Curtain torn down. Blood stained on the walls. You gulp as the blood stains lead you to the bathroom. You follow. And your heart breaks as you see Trinity her face toward the ceiling. She looked dead with all the blood that covered her neck but her shallow breaths told you she was still holding on. You drop the knife, fall to your knees, struggling to hold the tears that you thought had already ran out today.

 “…(y/n)..”trinity struggles to speak, blood splats out of her mouth.

 “don’t speak. Don’t worry its gonna be alright. Its gonna be-be okay.” You looked around the bathroom, it was in such dissary you didn’t know what supplies you could use to help her. Though you knew that the amount of blood lost was too much. It would not be okay.

 Trinity grabs your shirt and brings you close. You can smell the copper in her breath. “Leave. Its- its under the-the painting.” She whispers. Her grip loosens and her stare loses focus. You sob into your friends chest.

  You look under the only painting that Trinity had in her apartment Its of a little ship sailing in the sea. You never understood why she liked it. You take it off its hook and find a moderate sized hole that holds the bag of contents that you had asked her to hide for you. You finally had everything. It was time to finally leave. You took one last look at your friends apartment feeling bad you couldn’t give her a proper burial. You know she didn’t have a religion. You grow resentment that no one in this apartment building helped her. You find a match in her drawer and some alcohol. You make a trail through the apartment down the stairs of the building. Not before leaving with some of her jewelry and dress. Needing something to remember trinity by. You light the match and throw it with ease. Th building lights up in flames. You could hear the screams pleasing for help. But you walk away heading toward the train station with a heavy heart.

 Tommy’s P.O.V

 Thomas was taken to a field. His face a mixture of boredom and anger, his soon to be killer don’t care what he feels. Hes been on the other end of this and he didn’t are what his victims felt. He thinks of your face. The way you called his name. He wonders what your doing, if you got home safe. Surely you did. His brothers, Polly, one of his many loyal employee would have sought to it. That’s all that mattered. That you weren’t here facing the type of death that he was about to.

He asks for a last cigarette. The captors allow it watching him descend into an anger that he can no longer hold in. He was about to have everything.

‘Well not everything’ he thinks of the night where he almost got to kissed you and what a missed opportunity that was. He should have gone after you told you how he felt then. But it seemed to be to late as the man pressed the gun to his temple. He will make his piece with death. I mean how could he not when for so many years, he has been the reaper for so many.

 But instead of the bullet going through his skull, marking the end of Thomas Shelby’s life, he’s pushed into a grave and two shots ring off. One assassin stand while two bodies drop. He lays in the grave, confused and very alive.

The standing assassin simply says, “At some point in the near future, Mr.Churchhill will want to speak to you in person. Mr. Shelby. He has a job for you.”

For a moment he is stunned. He was so content with the thought of death merely moments ago and here he was alive in a grave meant for him. The man tells him to go. And Thomas wastes no time walking away toward a life he fully intends on enriching and keeping for a long time. Hopefully you get to be apart of it too.

Read pt.16

tags

@babylooneytoonz @captivatedbycillianmurphy @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @evelyn-4034  @ms-dont-care  @owenniasstars @shikin83 @lauren-raines-x @cactisjuice

[n3rdybird]

Healing Touch

Written for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​‘s Hamilton Lyric challenge!  This story went through so many re-writes and changes, god I hope this mangled mess is okay, haha.  My prompt was the line “My name’s been through a lot.  I can take it.”

Vikings

HeahmundxReader

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Some blood, talk about Church, self-flagellation etc (referenced, not described in depth) suggestive language, oogling a man of the church (haha)

Gossip was always a funny thing in small villages.  Perhaps you had not been thinking clear when you established your home on the edge of the holy town of Sherborn. Nestled in the woods near a stream, you were both close enough to the town to visit for supplies but far enough away that your arrival stirred up a bit of mystery.

 As an unmarried woman with no known family, you already raised a few brows of the more prominent families.  But it was your talent for herbalism that set most of the tongues wagging.  The smallfolk were more pragmatic towards your skills.  They could overlook your marital status if it meant well-made salves and tonic for their aches and illnesses. With their payments, usually traded goods that you could not make yourself, and the bounty of the forest, you rarely had any need to visit the town marketplace.  Which only furthered the mystique around you.

 When you did grace the town with your presence, most of the townsfolk gave you a wide berth, allowing you to shop in peace.  Even the merchants seemed to deal in your favor, giving you more than was due for your wares.  You heard the rumors.  Half the town believed that you were a cunning woman and would bring misfortune to any who wronged you.  The other half sang your praises, that you were even more skilled than the clergy.

 So it was to your great surprise as you kneeled to rearrange your parcels in your basket that a shadow loomed over you. You glanced upward, schooling your features as you saw the Bishop of Sherborne himself, Heahmund, standing over you.

You nodded your head in greeting before standing, slinging your basket over your shoulder.  The bishop was a popular man, known for his devotion to God as well as to the sword.  And lesser-known, his propensity for women.  Mostly gossip, but living as you had, you knew there was at least a kernel of truth to any rumor.  His handsome face did not help, nor the way his stubble gave him a rakish air.  He was a far cry from the average holy man, fat and week from a sedentary lifestyle.

 “Your Grace,” you greeted and dipped into a shallow curtsey, giving the most powerful man in Sherborne due deference for his position.

 “You know who I am?” he asked.

 “Of course.  One could scarcely live in Sherborne without knowing of its Bishop,” you answered.

 He nodded in agreement, before gesturing for you to walk with him.

 “Please allow me to escort you home if you are finished for the day,” he offered. 

 You had no intention of spending any considerable time with the church official, but you erred on the side of caution and walked in step next to him.

 “I apologize for not making my acquaintance sooner, I meet most of my parishioners on Sundays for mass,” he said, keeping his eyes forward. 

 You hummed noncommittally, but inside, you blanched. Heahmund's statement seemed polite on the surface, but you knew he was angling for an answer to why you had yet to make an appearance in church.  In all honesty, it wasn’t that you weren’t Christian.  You were, in your own way.  It was the idea that one had to go to church to be considered religious that you didn’t agree with.  So you had to pick your words carefully.

 “Well then I am pleased that I’ve had the chance to meet you today,” you said, avoiding the point about the church, focusing on his former words rather than the latter.  Heahmund cut his eyes towards you, clearly noting your evasion.

 “Quite.”  His tone was sharp and you felt as if you failed an unknown test.

 The conversation dwindled to Heahmund telling bits of history about the town or gesturing to points of interest as the two of you left town.  You were glad when you walked past the boundary of Sherborne. You were used to the curious stares when you were alone, but with the Bishop as company, it seemed the gazes were amplified.  The gossip mill would soon be in a frenzy.  The path home took you past the open fields and into the shaded forest along a winding path.

 “Living alone, so far from town, must worry you,” he noted.

 “Why would I be worried?”

 “Well a woman such as yourself, living alone.  You would be far better protected living in town.  Roaming bandits, animals, or even the occasional Viking incursion.”

 “I worry as much as the next, I suppose, but living in town has never appealed to me.  Not to mention it is easier to collect wild plants,” you explained.

 “Yes, I’ve heard of your skills.  Where did you learn?”

 You paused your walk, noticing a crop of comfrey sprouting from the ground.  You knelt in the dirt, brushing the purple buds with your fingertips.  Too young.  You’d have to wait a few more days to harvest.  You stood up, wiping the dirt off your skirt.  You glanced back at Heahmund who had stopped several paces away.  He was watching you closely but looked away as soon as your gaze met his.

 “Family mostly, I’ve never learned formally.  I’ve found that there is much in nature that can help or hurt.  It only takes a practiced hand to know the difference.”

 Heahmund stiffened, his hand resting on his sword.  His gaze turned to stone as he eyed you critically. 

 “And do you only heal?  Or do you hurt?  I admit this meeting was no coincidence.  There have been rumors that reached my ears.  Half the town believes you to be a cunning woman, a witch, and I do not suffer pagans under my watch.”

 You swallowed.  You shouldn’t have disregarded the gut feeling you had the moment he began speaking to you. If the Bishop found any fault in your words, he could kill you now and be firm in his belief that he was in the right in his duty as a man of God.  There was no one around who could come to your aid, not that any would stand against the warrior.

 “Do you deny it?”

 “Perhaps you could tell me which rumors have graced your ears, so I may better defend myself.”  The words you spoke were calm and confident, the complete opposite of how you were feeling. The sounds of the forest melted away and all you could hear was your rapid heartbeat as you tried to control your fear.

 Heahmund tilted his head as if trying to suss out your guilt or innocence.

 “‘Which’ rumors?  You are aware of what people say about you?”

 “My name’s been through a lot.  I can take it.  Women are always subjected to gossip, especially unmarried ones.  I would be a fool to believe otherwise.  I hardly see the point in trying to change someone’s opinion of me.  People do not like to be wrong.”

 “Lord Oswald has claimed that you hold dark influence over his daughter, causing her to act out and defy her father.  And that you placed a curse upon him, causing illness.”

 At the mention of the man, you clenched your fist.  You had first met his daughter when she visited you, draped in a cloak to hide her face. The purple bruise that spread across her cheekbone like a wine stain caused your immediate hatred towards the man she called father.  You may have let out a few choice curse words as you treated the abrasion and consoled the young woman.

 “That man is a pig.  I couldn't care less what he thought of me.  As for his illness, perhaps he should be blaming his poor diet.”

 “Lord Oswald is an upstanding and-”

 “Upstanding?  That man would sell his daughter to the vilest devil on earth if it meant he’d get more power!” You blurted the words out, angry that that man would be considered upstanding.

 “His daughter is his by rights, and as such may marry her to a man of his choosing. That is the duty of daughters,” the Bishop intoned, repeating the words drilled into him by years of church teachings.

 You scoffed at his words, biting back harsh curses.  Duty, you’ve never cared for that word.

 “Duty, what a hollow promise.  Is it not a father’s duty to protect his daughter? And not to lay a hand on her in anger?”

 Heahmund’s face softened at that particular bit of information.

 “Did you place a curse on Oswald?” he asked again, his voice low and stern.

 “I wouldn’t have to.  That man will drink himself into an early grave,” you spat.  You nodded to where his hand was still resting on the pommel of his sword.

 “So what is your judgment?  Is thinking a man worth less than a pile of shit enough to die? Or not congregating with hypocrites on Sunday who profess their goodness only to hit their wives or cheat on their husbands or sleep with clergymen?  Are those my crimes?”

 The last bit of course was aimed at the Bishop.  He was taken aback by your words.  He too knew the hypocrisy of humans, he had seen it firsthand in others and himself.

 “Regardless of any sin committed, man can repent and ask forgiveness.”  It was what he told himself every time he failed in his duty to God.

 “But I am judged by the words of one man, and that’s enough to condemn me?  And what of all the kind words said in my favor? Because they are from the smallfolk they aren’t as important? But as soon as someone with ‘prestige’ speaks horrible lies, you must come running to investigate.  Like a trained hound set out by its masters.”

 Dismissing the warrior bishop, you shook your head.  Rigid, sanctimonious, and arrogant.

 “If you are going to kill me, kill me.  I do not wish to suffer your presence any longer.”

 When Heahmund did not speak but removed his hand from his sword you gave him a terse nod.

 “Enjoy the rest of your day, your Grace.”

 Heahmund watched as you walked away, your skirts swishing behind you.  You had spoken the truth.  He had no interest in you until the upper echelon started their complaints.  He was all but demanded to get to the bottom of it.  As much as your words stung, you were correct. He could have denounced the hearsay as soon as they were spoken, owing to the fact that smallfolk all but revered you.  So he bowed under the demands to keep his place secure.

 You, however, were not what he expected.  Young, unmarried, and striking.  He thought you might be an older widow, with the talk of your skills.  Instead he got you, a fiery, educated young woman, who wasn't afraid of speaking her mind.  It was almost refreshing to have someone not fawn over him.  Yes, you treated him with respect but did not trip over yourself to please him.  You had no problem criticizing him.

 He rubbed the pommel of his sword, worrying the raised designs with his thumb.  You were interesting indeed.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 After you left the bishop to mull over your words, you had hurried home, half expecting him to come after you and take you in for your supposed crimes. When he did not follow, your steps became shaky and you found yourself stumbling into the small cottage you called home.  You flung the latch closed and leaned against the door, trying to regain your wits.

 You had been accused of crimes, as untrue as they were.  The Bishop himself was sent to investigate.  And you had thrown a tantrum, insulting him and his life.  The next few days you did not venture far from your home, fearing retribution.  You debated leaving your home, going to another area.  But you tired of running away.  As the days passed, you breathed a little easier.  No one had come to take you away, and the smallfolk continued to do business with you.

 After a particularly grueling morning over a cookfire, and setting a poor child’s broken arm, you were exhausted.  With the hot sun overhead, you plucked at your tunic as it stuck to your skin.  A dip in the water would do nicely.

 Gathering your satchel and clad in a lightweight chemise, you began your trek to your preferred bathing spot.  A small bend in the river where the water calmed and you could bathe in relative peace.

 Placing your bag within reach of the water, you glance around before unlacing your chemise, letting it fall to your feet.  The water was cool, refreshing on your overheated skin.  You ducked under the water, brushing your wet locks away from your face.  You wiped the water from your eyes before reaching for your soap to wash away the grime of the morning.

 “Perhaps you are not a witch, but a water nymph from Greek stories,” a familiar voice called out.  You spun and stared gobsmacked at the bishop sitting near the edge of the water.  You bristled at the nerve of him openly staring as you bathed.

 “Shouldn’t a man of the cloth look away when a woman is bathing?” you retorted, wishing for the first time that the water was not so clear.

 “Ah, but you have already judged me a hypocrite, would that not be proving you wrong?” he replied but turned his head away from you.

 You grumbled, a bit irritated that he had thrown your own words back in your face. Making your way to the shore, you all but snatched your chemise with outstretched fingertips, and dressed with haste.

 “Is there something you need, your Grace?” you huffed out, irritated that he had spoiled your bath. You grabbed your satchel, swinging it wildly over your shoulder, hitting his chest with the soft leather.  You immediately dropped your pack in alarm when he hissed in pain.

 “I came to apologize,” he said between clenched teeth.  “Would that be amiable, or would you prefer to hit me with your bag again?”

 The weight of your bag should not have caused him any pain, especially if it caused him to grit his teeth.  You peeled back his tunic and gasped at the sight of several scratches adorning his chest.  Though most were superficial, a few deep welts drug across the expanse of his skin.

 “What on earth happened?”

 Heahmund jerked away from your grip.

 “It’s nothing to worry about," he said, brushing off your concern.

 “I’d ask you not to lie to me.  Take off your shirt.”

 When he didn’t follow your command you rolled your eyes.

 “Lord save me from bullheaded men,” you muttered, reaching for his shirt.

 “You can either take off your shirt, or I will cut it off.  It matters not to me what you choose.”

 Heahmund raised a brow at your demands and pulled his tunic over his head with a grunt of pain.  Kneeling in front of him, you tried to not ogle the Bishop as you took in his wounds.  Most were already scabbed over, others dark with crusted blood.  You curled your lip in dismay.  You traced your fingers over his skin, the newer cuts crossing over old scars.  Some of the deeper gashes were warm to the touch, a sign of infection.  You looked up, his eyes watching your hand as it moved across his chest before looking at you.

 You pulled your hand away, clucking in a scolding manner.  Rifling through your pouch, you pulled out a strip of cloth and some salve.  You dipped the cloth into the cool water, wringing out the excess before blotting at the wounds.

 “You would think someone with your knowledge would know to treat cuts, no matter how trivial,” you said, as you washed the crusted blood away.  “You look like you got in a fight with a cat,” you joked.

 “Thorns actually,” he amended.  When you looked at him confused, he clarified.

 “My self-penance, along with asking for your forgiveness.”

 You paused in your ministrations, horrified at the thought.

 “You believe God would want you to harm yourself to seek forgiveness?”

 “It brings me clarity, to better understand what path God wishes me to take.”

 You shook your head before reaching for the salve.

 “What is there to understand?  God gave us free will, for us to make the choices in our lives.  Maybe making mistakes is part of his plan?” you said softly, applying the paste with deft fingers.

 “I fear I make too many mistakes, stumble too often in my path,” Heahmund confessed.

 “You were right.  About Oswald and the rumors.  His daughter confirmed it in confession.  She was quite worried about you when she heard I came to visit you.”

 You shook your head, sighing.  The last thing you wanted was to cause more trouble for the young girl.

 “I hope you told her she was not at fault.  I can take care of myself.  Please tell her not to worry.”

 He took your hand in his, his calloused fingertips running along yours.  Your hand was calloused, but not from holding a sword.  You had burn scars from hot pots, tiny cuts from mishaps with knives. Your hand that he had accused of witchcraft and misdeeds was the hand that wiped away his blood and applied medicine, something he did not deserve.  A healing hand.

 “Choices and mistakes shape our lives, make us who we are.  My life brought me here, to Sherborne.  As your choices brought you to me.  It was your choice to let, rather than kill or imprison me, something I am grateful for,” you said matter of fact.

 Heahmund laughed.

 “We shall see if that works in my favor.  Provided you didn’t poison me,” he said, nodding towards his chest.

 You rolled your eyes and licked your fingertip, still coated in salve.  Heahmund’s eyebrows jumped in surprise at your action.

 “Well if it were poison, now I would die as well.  So fear not your Grace, you should be on the mend quickly,” you jested with a smile.  Heahmund returned your smile with one of his own.  You felt your stomach flutter at the expression on his face, and the threat of a blush warmed your neck.

 He brought your hand up to his lips and planted a warm slow kiss on the back of your knuckles.  The rough brush of his stubble sent a zip of desire down your spine.  This was dangerous.  This was a mistake in the making.  But you found yourself caring little as you stared into his eyes.

 “Please, allow me to repay you.”

[queenxxxsupreme]

I’m daydreaming and just imagining reader being self conscious of her body after giving birth and geralt just being fluffy and sweet and not liking her putting herself down and yeh

A/N: This makes me soft. I hope you like this babe!!

Warning: This fic does have quite a bit of mentioning of body image issues and postpartum issues many women face. I did my best to google things because I’ve never had a kid so I don’t know what postpartum is like but I hope I did somewhat decently with it.

You gazed into the mirror, admiring the way the deep red silk material of your dress hugged your chest. You brushed your hand down the material and over your stomach, frowning as your eyes settled there. The little smile that had been on your lips faded almost instantly. 

You didn’t like the way the dress looked, the way the material seemed to amplify your slightly sagging stomach. Now that you were focused on it, your stomach seemed suddenly much bigger than it actually was and the thought of wearing that dress in public made you sick. You couldn’t go to Cirilla’s birthday celebration looking like that. 

You turned your back to the mirror, biting back the tears as you shook your head. 

You just had Bram not even two months ago, Y/N. You just need time to bounce back and everything will be okay!

No matter how many times you told yourself that, there was another voice in the back of your head that spoke up, growing louder and louder as it pointed out all of your insecurities. 

The extra weight you’d put on. The way your arms jiggled when you moved them or the way a double chin formed when you looked down. The way none of your clothes fit comfortably, except for your maternity clothes. 

You reached behind yourself to pull the ties on the dress, letting out a breath as the material loosened around your torso. You pushed the dress down and let the silk pool at your ankles. 

The door to the room opened and you hastily moved to retrieve the throw at the foot of your bed. 

Your husband stepped in, brows drawing together as he saw you move quickly, snatching the throw and using it to cover yourself.

“It’s just me, dove.”

You nodded but still kept the throw tight to you, holding it just beneath your chin. 

He stood there for a moment, assessing what had just happened. Was something wrong? 

“Are, um, Are you ready? Yennefer is growing rather impatient.”

You chewed on your bottom lip for a moment, dropping your eyes to the floor as you shook your head.

“I-I don’t feel good, Geralt. I don’t think I should go.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt took a few steps towards you but you shook your head, stepping away from him until your back bumped into the wall. 

His breath caught in his throat, shoulders tensing up as he watched you carefully. Your eyes were full of too many emotions for him to decipher them all. Fear. Worry. Dread. Concern. 

“Y/N.” He murmured your name. 

“Just-Just go without me, okay?” You whispered, trying to force a smile on to your lips as you shook your head but the tears in your eyes swelled up and blurred your vision. “Take Bram. I-I know Eist and Calanthe would love to see him and-and Ciri adores him.”

“Please tell me what is wrong.” Geralt quietly begged. “You were so excited to go earlier today. We’ve been talking about going all week.”

“Yes, but I-I just….” You trailed off, unable to come up with a good answer, one that wasn’t necessarily the truth. You didn’t want to tell your husband that you were ashamed of your body, of the body he claimed to love so dearly. 

“Cirilla would be devastated if you didn’t come.”

You closed your eyes tightly, shaking your head as your head fell forward. One hand clutched the throw to your chest while the other covered your face.

“I’m so sorry, Geralt.” You cried quietly. “I-I’m sorry. You deserve so, so much better.”

Wordlessly, Geralt crossed the room. You didn’t even notice this so when his hand took ahold of your wrist to pull your hand from your face, you flinched. He carefully pried your hand from your face and then hooked two fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head up. 

He used the pad of his thumb to brush the tears from your damp cheeks. His liquid gold eyes were studying you, concerned, worried. 

He had an idea about what it was that could be upsetting you. You were holding the throw to your body as if it was your life source. You were shielding yourself from his eyes, from your husband’s eyes. He’d seen you naked before. Hell, he witnessed you give birth to his son. There could only be one reason why you were suddenly hiding your body from him. 

“Please tell me why you think that I deserve better?” He whispered, warm breath fanning over your face. 

“I-I’m the size of a fucking cow, Geralt.” You dropped your gaze to focus on the wolf pendant. “My stomach is all wrinkly and there are stretchmarks all over me. I-I look disgusting.”

“Y/N.” He said your name with a scolding tone, though he was gentle. “You are not disgusting. You are the woman I love.”

“The woman you love died when she had a child.” You muttered. 

Geralt took your chin in his hold once more and tilted your head up. 

“The woman I love brought my son into this world.” He kissed your forehead. “I love you, Y/N. How you look doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!” You couldn’t help but raise your voice, pushing against his chest but you would’ve had better luck pushing a brick wall. “You fell in love with me, why? Because-Because of my charming personality? Fuck that, Geralt! My personality is absolute shit!”

You were just angry with yourself. He didn’t deserve your outburst and you knew this. 

“I fell in love with you, Y/N. With the stupid jokes you tell me and the way you smile when you see a cow in a field or a children chasing each other. I fell in love with how you treated me when we first met. I wasn’t a witcher to you. You didn’t treat me like some stupid mutant. You are kind and generous and I can’t imagine myself with another.” He shook his head. 

“But all of that, all of you falling in love with me…. There’s a sexual aspect to it too.” You told him, adamant on getting him to admit that you were hideous. You wanted the truth. You didn’t want him to lie to you to make you feel better. “You liked me, my body, what I had to offer in that sense.”

He sighed heavily through his nose.

“When I fell in love with you, Y/N, I fell in love with all of you. This body, your body, made my son, and this body feeds him. Now is no different than before. If anything, I actually enjoy this.” He brought his hands up to your shoulders. 

“You enjoy me looking like a cow?”

“Stop saying that.” He softly demanded, shaking his head. “No, my love. You are warm and comforting and so fucking sexy. This is bigger.” His hands trailed to your backside, squeezing you firmly. “And so are other things.” 

His eyes shamelessly looked down at your chest, which was poorly covered with the throw. 

“I enjoy every part of you, dove, and I am in love with you. With your thighs and how warm they are in my hands. With your stomach and how soft it is when I lay my head upon it, and how you carried my son for nine long months inside of you. Nothing could ever change my love for you, Y/N.”

You almost believed him, but then that voice continued to tell you that he was lying. You shook your head, eyes falling to the floor again. 

He put his hand on the throw and tried to pull it away from you but you held it firmly. 

“Dove. Let me.” He murmured. 

You hesitated, still holding the throw with white knuckles. You finally let it go and held your breath, eyes squeezing shut tightly. 

You expected a gasp or some noise of repulsion. You expected him to flee even. 

But instead, he pulled you in for a hug, large arms wrapping around you and drawing you into his chest. 

“You are the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen in all my years.” He breathed into your hair. 

The breath you had held left your lips and cries shook your shoulders. You melted into his touch, burying your face in his chest. 

“You are strong, Y/N. You carried Bram for nine months, and it wasn’t easy. I know it wasn’t. Watching you struggle with the aches and pains and with the loss of balance and the sickness…. I love you.”

“But I’m-I’m covered in stretchmarks. My stomach, it’s-it’s-,”

“It is beautiful, just like you. They make you who you are now. You’re a mother, Y/N.” Geralt pulled away to look down at you, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. “And the best one I’ve ever seen.”

You looked down at your stomach for a moment.

“You don’t…. You don’t think it’s gross?”

He gave you a little smile before leaning down to kiss your forehead. 

“No, my sweet dove. I don’t think it’s gross. And neither should you.”

You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch. 

“If you truly don’t want to go, then I can take Jaskier and Bram with me.” Geralt rubbed your back with one large hand. “You can stay here and get a bath, maybe catch up on some much needed sleep. Do you want to go?”

“I do.” You nodded. “It’d be lovely to see Calanthe and Eist.”

“Then let’s get you dressed.” Geralt kissed you softly and then picked up your dress that you had discarded on the floor.

Taglist: @pressedinthepages​ @MishaFaye @whitewolfandthefox @ayamenimthiriel @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @wolfyland07  @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @romancebibliophilia @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration @shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las  @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa @disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys @crazybutconfidentaf @wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural  @magpie343 @permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @thefirelordm @writingawaymylife @reaganjenelle @badassspaceprincess @theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher  @badassspaceprincess @swimswimsubadivehelp @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an--actual--human--disaster @rubyqueen819

[longitud-de-onda]

mistakes like this, pt. 4

pairing; javier peña x reader summary; you dumbasses finally get over your inability to communicate rating; m warnings; angst, talking about sex and alcohol and sort of talking about consent word count; 3.0k a/n; never thought my first time writing smut would turn into a four part series. and now its done and i loved writing this. i’m thinking about some side pieces from javi’s perspective and/or an epilogue (maybe smutty?), so i’ll leave y’all on the taglist unless you request to be removed. enjoy! previous; part one, part two, part three

mistakes like this masterlist

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

“Javi—” you started. You were tired and it was late. Your stomach was churning at the sounds of the previous half-hour. “You need to leave.”

You closed the door only for it to be stopped, inches from the frame.

“Wait! Y/N,” Javier said, “I can’t lose you.”

You knew the sound of tears in someone's voice. Hell, you sounded the exact same when talking to Connie. You didn’t pity Javier the way you assumed Connie pitied you, but you couldn’t help but wonder what had happened and why he was at your door, again. 

“You already did, Peña.” Your voice came out cold and flat. 

“I know and I fucked up,” he said. 

You laughed. That was the understatement of the century. 

“Yeah. And I lost my best friend.” You took a deep breath. “Javi, I don't have the energy for this, I just want to go to sleep. You’ve done enough damage today.”

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were still recovering from everything Javier had said. It hurt, knowing he didn’t care. That you had gone from being everything to one another, to being practically nothing. You wanted him back, but you knew you couldn’t ever be the same around him. It was too hard. 

Javier was still standing in the doorway. Maybe saying what you had was too harsh. Too hard for a guy who had clearly been crying and was only half-dressed. But you were still processing what he had done. Hearing him fuck another woman, so soon after you fought, so soon after treating you like trash. 

It had hurt more than you expected it to. 

You weren’t in a relationship, so he had all the right to do it. But that didn’t cushion the blow. You had just admitted you loved him. To Connie, and to yourself. Hearing him only felt like the final twist of a knife you never expected to have been impaled in your chest. 

You motioned to turn around, about to close the door again. 

“I love you.”

You froze. Javier’s eyes were wide and his mouth parted in shock at his own words. 

Once you recovered from those words, ones you hadn’t heard spoken to you in a long time, ones that had probably not come out of Javier’s mouth in a long time either, the humor of it all struck you. 

He said he cared about your friendship. He said he was scared of losing you. He said he loved you. But all his actions didn’t match up. There was no way he could be telling the truth, no way that the two of you felt the same way about each other. That didn’t happen to people like you: DEA agents working their asses off, numb to everything, killing people. You didn’t get happy endings like that.

You laughed out loud, and Javier still stood there, watching.

“Is that why you fucked someone else?” you asked.

Javier paused, something flashing across his eyes. Fear, maybe? You maintained eye contact with him, waiting for a response. Anything to explain the roller coaster of emotions that was now flooding your body.

“I thought I had lost you, I needed to, you know,” he said, “but all I could think of was you.” 

He was looking down at the ground, and you thought you heard a sniffle but you couldn’t be sure. This wasn’t the Javier you knew. Not the cocky asshole who would push people away and throw up a middle finger at the first sight of emotions. This was someone else. Someone giving up their shell, baring themselves to you. 

“I said your name,” Javier whispered.

You couldn’t help your heart from soaring at those words before feeling the pang of guilt. You imagined him in bed with the woman, how she would have been enamored by him. Like everyone was. Like you were. How at the heat of the moment, no matter how impersonal things were, Javier let out another person's name. You had felt that sting before, sometime back in college, and you wouldn’t wish it on anyone. No matter how much that meant Javier was honest in his words to you.

“That just makes you an asshole. To at least two women today,” you spit out. 

“And I want to make it up to one of them,” Javier said, pleading.

“Saying you love me doesn’t fix things,” you said. You were wary with your words. Javier might love you, but you couldn’t ignore that he never did relationships. Who was to say he would be able to do one with you?

“I know. Can I explain myself?” he said. At least he was trying.

You wanted to push him away. Slam the door on him and try to forget. This had only further complicated things. You wanted to give him a shot, but he had proven time and time again, over five years, that he wasn’t interested in relationships. You couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t fail you.

But then again, what other woman had he sacrificed nights out for? All so that you could vent about work or sit and drink with him. You were so close, it could practically be considered dating. That is, if you removed the dates and the kissing. That was what had killed you over the years. That was what you had to push down and try to forget.

But Javier loved you. That wasn’t something you could ignore. More than anything, you were disappointed that this realization didn’t send you over the moon with joy. You wished it could have happened that morning when you were still hopeful. When you hadn’t been treated like shit. But the damage had been done, and now you struggled to even believe the words you were hearing.

You looked up at Javier. He was waiting for your response, one hand in the other, massaging his own fingers in the nervous gesture you recognized from days out in the field when he didn’t have cigarettes or alcohol to fall back on. It was cold too, out in the hallway, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and as much as he tried to hide it, you could see the goosebumps littering his skin.

Eyes drifting over his chest, you took in his appearance. He was very clearly just having sex, his pants haphazardly buttoned on and his lips were swollen. His cheeks were redder than usual and your eyes swept over his body. You remembered seeing him like this, back when you made him look that way. But this time it was another woman’s fault. 

Another woman that he had used and called her by your own name. It was admittedly one of the suckiest moves a guy could make, except throwing a girl aside as soon as you had had sex, as Javier had you. But you knew Javier would only beat himself up over it. And he was here, trying to make things right, saying words you thought he couldn’t ever say.

“Fine.” You stepped aside, holding the door open for Javier. He hesitated before stepping across the threshold, avoiding eye contact as he sat down on the edge of your couch. Javier propped his elbows onto his legs, leaned forward, and ran a hand through his hair. 

You watched him from the doorway, not sure if he was about to say something or would wait for you to come fully in. You closed the door and walked up to the edge of your kitchen island, leaning against the counter and facing Javier. The apartment was dark, a faint glow from the streetlights passing through your curtains washed the room with yellow. It lit Javier up from the back, giving his hunched figure an angelic glow. No matter how angry you were, he was always the most beautiful person you had ever seen. Somehow you had fallen for a man who had only gotten more stunning with age.

Standing against the island, hands behind your back, you take a deep breath. Javier has got to say something. Your mind is racing, unsure whether to fixate on how beautiful he is or how angry you are or how frustrating it is that he hasn’t said anything.

Javier looked up, mouth opening and closing without saying a word, and then he croaked out in a tear-marred voice, “I love you.”

“You’ve said that,” you said, trying to steady your breath. Hearing it the first time you weren’t sure what to think. This time, however, it was hard not to smile.

“I...I don’t know how to do this, Y/N,” he said.

Of course he didn’t. Javier hadn’t talked about emotions with anyone. The closest he’d probably gotten was drunken nights with you. Drunken nights where you didn’t have sex.

You could see how hard this was, admitting things, for him. Hell, you knew that the reason he had sex with so many unnamed faces and prostitutes was a coping mechanism for all the feelings he didn’t want to talk about. He hadn’t let anyone get close enough to him in a long time. He probably hasn’t loved anyone for even longer.

“Why don’t you start with explaining why you said that shit in the office,” you prompted. If you could understand why he hurt you like that when he supposedly loved you, maybe you could start making sense of things.

“You said it,” he sighed, “You heard everything, I don’t know what else—”

“Why did you wish it never happened?” you interrupted. “Because I don’t know if I wanted it or not, but I wouldn’t have regretted it. Not if you hadn’t made me feel like it was nothing more than a mistake.”

That was something you weren’t sure if you were ready to admit, but your mouth worked faster than your head sometimes.

“I wished you weren’t drunk, Y/N,” he said, “That’s what you weren’t letting me tell you earlier…. I wish I could have done that—kissed you—when we were both sober.”

Oh.

Oh.

That changes things.

If he had wanted to do that? If he had said that and you had misunderstood? If you had yelled at him? Told him you couldn’t be friends anymore? Didn’t that make you the bad person?

“I woke up that morning, and you were right there—so fucking beautiful—and then I realized I had taken advantage of you. I didn’t want to have done that. I felt horrible,” he said in your silence.

You had both been idiots.

“I was hoping that morning that things would be okay, and then you weren’t talking to me,” you said. “I acted like one of your hookups, just laying myself out there for you. And you then treated me like one the next morning.”

Your voice cracked as you spoke and a few tears began to fall. You had tried so hard to remain stoic in front of Javier, but you couldn’t anymore. It was all too much, discovering that you had been wrong this whole time. That you had beat yourself up over everything when Javier was doing the same damn thing.

“Earlier today, when you said something about being a whore?” Javier said, swallowing. He looked up at you, and you stared back down at him.

You weren’t sure where this was going, and you hoped he wasn’t about to screw things over again. From what had happened in the past minutes, you had hope, but that speck of doubt still sat in your stomach.

“You’re not,” he continued. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being that, but Y/N, I know you. I know you better than anyone else. You’re the most amazing woman and I could never think of you as just another hookup.”

You were frozen in place. Javier was looking up at you. He was sitting up now, one hand gripping his other arm tightly. You had been so wrong. About everything.

“I’d wanted to do that with you for a year or so now,” Javier said.

‘You have?’ you wanted to ask. But you didn’t. You could hardly believe what he was saying. You were only just starting to fully understand that he loved you. And to hear that he has for so long?

“Ever since the time you fell asleep on my couch, it wasn’t even eight and you were passed out after the day we’d had. You almost got shot earlier that day, I thought I was going to lose you,” he said. You remembered that day so vividly. “We all almost died. And the look on your sleeping face, like nothing was wrong. And I was just so glad you were even there.”

That day had been awful. You had come along on a raid with Javier. Everything was fine until you were ducked beneath a shattered window of the apartment next to a sicario’s, bullets flying overhead. Javier was next to you. You would never forget the sound of the grenade going off meters away, on the other side of the wall. The pressure of the blast sending you two flying. Exposed, you made a run for it.

Someone had followed you down the streets and between buildings. The chase led you over rooftops and when you lost them you had collapsed, all energy gone.

Later, when you found Javier again, you returned home. You couldn’t go into your apartment alone. Your hands shook as you put the key in the lock, and you stood in front of your apartment, door open, but too scared to enter. Javier had come up behind you, led you into his place, warmed up a microwave dinner, and you ate in silence on the floor of his living room.

You were still shaking when you curled up on his couch and he wrapped you in a blanket, and you turned on the TV. He sat on the other end of the sofa, legs brushing against yours, and didn’t say a word.

Looking back, you knew you had loved him for most of your friendship. Moments like that where he made you feel like someone cared for you more than anything, those were what hurt the most. Knowing you’d never have him, as unavailable as he was for romance.

Apparently, you had been mistaken.

“Every day after that I’ve wanted to kiss you.” He stood up from the couch as he said those words. “I’ve wanted to hold you in my arms, and make sure a day like that would never happen again.”

“Why didn’t you?” you breathed.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

“It’s the DEA, Y/N,” he sighed. “We can’t, we shouldn’t have. And either way, you were my friend, and you don’t, you know, obviously, feel the same way.”

You wanted to scream at him. Of course you did. How could he not see that?

Javier lowered his head. His voice was painful to listen to as he held back tears. “And I didn’t want to ruin it, like I did today.”

“Javi, I—” you started. He had ruined it, sure, but he had also more than fixed things. You still weren’t sure if you could trust him, but it didn’t matter because there was a sharp pain in your chest as you looked at Javier and saw the tears running down his face. Seldom did you see any man, especially Javier, this vulnerable.

He was putting his whole self on the line for you, and you were damn sure going to do the same.

“I’ve wanted so much more from you, for a long time now,” you said, “I think I fell in love sometime in between beer bottles littering your coffee table and late nights watching crappy Colombian action films.”

You were smiling and sniffling and you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I wasn’t sure if that night I let you kiss me because I was drunk or because I wanted it, but if you had caught me sober—” You lowered your voice to a whisper. “I would have done the same thing.”

Javier’s jaw had dropped a half an inch, mouth hanging slightly ajar, and you bit your lip. It was a lot to process. You had been wrong about many things, but most of all, you had missed out on Javier. You had missed out on everything.

Javier took a step closer to you.

“Are you sober now?” he asked.

“Yes?” you said.

He stepped forward again, right in front of you. You were pinned between Javier and the island as he stared down at you. The look on his face was intense, his eyes boring into your skin, his facial muscles softened. He placed one hand on the rim of the counter beside you. You could feel the heat radiating off of his bare skin.

“Good,” he said.

He reached one hand up to touch your cheek and leaned in. His face was inches away from yours when he stalled, letting you meet his lips. Your eyes fluttered shut as you made contact, his lips soft against your own.

You wrapped your arms around his body, and he moved the arm that was once beside you around your waist, pulling you away from the counter and into his chest. You were wearing your sleep shirt, and the thin fabric was not much of a barrier between you and Javier, causing you to gasp against his mouth.

“I’m never going to stop saying it, Y/N,” Javier said, “I love you.”

He swiped his thumb once across your lips before wrapping that arm around you too, holding you tight and close.

“I love you too.” You were breathing heavily, and you rested your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his sweat and a light hint of cigarettes.

“I’m so sorry for making you feel like I didn’t,” he murmured into the skin of your shoulder.

“Javi, I’m sorry too. For pushing you away. I didn’t realize you—I was so scared. Scared that I had lost the person I cared about most,” you whispered.

He laughed softly, his frame shaking against yours. “I’m never gonna let you go, you know.”

You smiled. “Please don’t ever, Javi.”

taglist; @pascalisthepunkest @turquiosenights @el-lizzie​ @raven974​ @ryunochii @kawaiitimecharm​ @baar-ur​ @coffeeandtodd​ @mando-vibes​ @aeryntheofficial​ @thefuturelawyer​ @flapjacques​ @letaliabane​ @c0recl0wn​ @equalstrashflavoredtrash​ @lillietheoneandonly​ @arrowswithwifi​ @the-soulofdevil​ @rzrcrst​ @higher-further-faster-bb​ @murdermewithbooks​ @cloud-of-roses​ @didi0666 @random066​ @4huncwoci​ @xo-dragonette-xo​ @fanfiction-trashpile​

so sorry to those who tumblr won’t let me tag

[eueden]

 ⟨ MAUDE APATOW. CIS FEMALE. SHE/HER. ⟩ though the mist might prevent some from seeing it, EDEN KOPPELMAN is actually a descendent of H E S T I A. it’s still a question of whether or not the TWENTY-THREE year old VETERINARY from CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA has taken after their godly parent completely, but the demigod is still known to be quite THOUGHTFUL & QUIXOTIC.

hi, hello, allô, hola, ciao, ella here again with another character. okay so there’s not much to say about me that most of you don’t already know, i have no life and i’m always lurking even if i never do replies (don’t tell the admins) hgsghssghs anyway, this is eden and in a shocking turn of events i actually have a good idea of who she is and look i even made a graphic, if that’s ain’t dedication then i don’t what it is.

basic information.

NAME: eden atara koppelman

PRONUNCIATION: EE - d uh n

NICKNAME: E?? idk

GENDER: cis female

PLACE OF BIRTH: brisbane, queensland, australia

HOMETOWN: cape town, south africa

DATE OF BIRTH: june 26, 1997

AGE: twenty-three

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: heterosexual so far but secretly curious

MAJOR: veterinary

EXTRACURRICULARS: president of the jewish student association, vice president of the herpetology club, president of the volunteer service, women in leadership member, student government member

SPORTS: captain of the climbing team and co-captain of the track & field team

character inspo.

Jessica Day (New Girl) ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖

Elliott Reid (Scrubs) ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖

Amy Santiago (Brooklyn 99) ✖ ✖ ✖ ✖

background.

tw: death, infant death, car accident, fire

Eden was born in Brisbane, Australia. She comes from an animal lover family. Her grandparents are very popular down under because they had an animal TV show à la Steve Irwin. Her dad followed their footsteps and it’s a well-known zoologist who also had some TV shows (think of Bear Grylls).

TW: death, infant death, car accident. Matthias Koppelman (her dad) had been previously married but lost his wife and child in a car accident and after that he isolated himself from the public eye and moved to Namibia. 

At twenty-eight, he felt the need to climb Mount Everest as one does, ya know? But ofc this man hadn’t climbed in years (he had experience but he’d been too sad to climb mountains. I mean he could barely leave bed, let alone climb Everest). That didn’t stop him and he did.

He almost d worded there bc as I said he was not ready but that’s when Hestia queen of fire showed up and warmed him (in a non sexual way bc she’s pure okay) and he was like oh that was a near dead experience and didn’t think much.

After he conquered the Everest with the help of Hestia, he moved back to Australia and oh surprise a few months later he opened his door and voilá a bebé was there with a note that said “you deserve to have a family, love hestia” 

He was shocked like “did i just impregnate a fantasy?”  but then Hestia was kind enough to send another and explain everything.

Anyway, Eden lived in Brisbane for four years before her dad took a job in South Africa. They moved to Cape Town (and her grandparents came with them) and pretty much had a happy life surrounded by animals. 

TW: fire. When she was nine, her dad took her to a game reserve in Limpopo and by some reason a fire started endangering animals and flora. Everyone was panicking bc I mean wouldn’t u? But Eden was attracted to the flames like a pyro (the good kind tho) and since everyone had better things to do than taking care of a child, they left her unsupervised and she delved into the fire.

Ofc nothing happened to her because ✨immunity✨ but guess who showed up again? Hestia!!!! Being a great goddess and mom, she taught Eden how to use her powers so she could absorb the fire and save all the animals and people. 

Everyone was like holy shit a miracle and the firefighters were like “the fuck? we did shit but we gonna take the credit lol”

Eden was like “did that just happen?” and yes, it did but she was like “meh that was imagination” and her dad was like *nervous chuckle* “yeah…” because he didn’t want to tell her the truth since that could put her in danger.

At 13, she had her bat mitzvah and it was all fun and games until fire lady showed up aka Hestia. Her dad and Hestia explained everything and Eden was like: 

Hestia claimed her and off to camp she went. For the next few years she went to camps all over the world as a treat.

She never went on a quest bc she was afraid and also because she couldn’t put herself in danger and risk losing her life bc her dad already had lost a child… so yeah

Her dad remarried when she was seventeen and a year later she welcomed a new baby brother and that’s why she decided to take a gap year to be with her bro and also work with her dad in the reserves.

She moved to Athens when she was nineteen and decided to go into veterinary school. So yes Ella will get her dog one way or another idc what the admins say :chaos:

Ahhhh that’s all folks!!! We did it!

FULL BIO (yes, i completed it this time)

personality.

Eden never loses her sense of curiosity. You could say that she sees life through rose colored glasses as if she lived on the edge of a mirror country where worldly objects come to life, where flora and fauna assume almost human qualities.  

She has the ability to see the good in almost anyone or anything and tends to sympathize with even the most unfriendly person. She often hides the extreme depth of feelings from her, even from herself, until circumstances elicit a passionate response. 

She has a deep sense of idealism that comes from a strong personal sense of right and wrong. She sees the world as a place full of possibilities and potentials and is governed by her intuition. She is quite reserved and is not easily manipulated. 

She is a good listener and considerate, they try to care for and understand others in a deep way. She can be very calm and intuitive with the people around her, being able to search for hidden meanings in the actions and words of others.

Of course, all of life is not rosy and Eden is not exempt from suffering the same disappointments and frustrations that are common to others. She tends to be a perfectionist and often strives for personal ideals that can be exhausting or very difficult to obtain.

She also struggles with time management, always leaving everything to the last minute claiming she “works better under pressure” but the truth is she’s just a procrastinator. 

Very sensible, she cries almost every day either because of a commercial or a sweet story she read on Facebook. It doesn’t matter, if it’s slightly emotional she will shed some tears.

powers.

pyrokinesis: This power first manifested when she was nine years old and she helped to save an animal reserve from the flames with the help of Hestia. Since she was claimed when she was thirteen, she’s learned how to use this power. Now she can summon fire without any problem and put it out just as fast. This is very helpful because she loves baking but she’s a bit clumsy so she often burns herself, but thankfully, she’s immune, so no pain. However, Eden has never been able to create a hot wall of flames nor she has ever asked how to do that, she just hopes she never has to use it.

serenity inducement: Eden avoids conflict at all cost, not only it makes her cry but also makes her very uncomfortable and anxious which is why this was the first power she manifested. She was just a child but from what she remembers it was during a class in preschool that a kid started hitting another one. Eden panicked at such an act of violence she went there and touched the bully’s shoulder which immediately calmed him. Back then she didn’t know it was a power but after finding out about her true identity, many other events like this started to make sense. This is the power she uses the most, also with animals which is why she makes such a good veterinarian because she can calm an animal's nerves.

bond manipulation: She wouldn’t say this is one of her weakest powers but it’s one she didn’t use often growing up because she came from such a stable family that it didn’t seem necessary, however, she sometimes catches herself using it in group projects or at her workplace, you know, to keep things healthy and positive.

ability to summon food: By far the one she uses the least (personally speaking), she likes cooking and baking, so she doesn’t see the point but she does use it to feed stray animals.

headcanons.

Eden speaks fluent English, she has a mixed South African and Australian accent but she can switch. At school, half of her classes were in Afrikaans, so she also speaks it fluently. Greek comes from her demigod side, but she also took some classes back in school upon her father’s request. Growing up in a very Jewish family, her grandparents believed it was pretty important that Eden learned Yiddish and Hebrew, she can read it perfectly but struggles speaking it, especially Yiddish because she also attended Hebrew school. As for French, she learned in high school and she still takes lessons at Eonia but she hates it.

Her father started taking her to a climbing gym when she was five and by the time she was ten she was already climbing 6a routes which is pretty much an intermediate level and very impressive for her age. 

She had her own TV show on Discover Kids titled “Eden’s Wildlife Adventure” in which she explained the importance of different types of animals. The first seasons were shot between Australia and South Africa, but in later seasons she traveled across Africa and South America. The show ran from 2005-2011 (which was when she was claimed).

Dreams of climbing Mount Everest before her 30th birthday.

Her father is a classic rock band and so is she. Her animals have been named after influential musicians. Right now she has a cat named Hendrix, a horse named Cobain, a dog named Mick. Growing up her father took care of a baby lion which they named Little Richard because he was smaller than most lion cubs. Over the years, his father and grandparents have fostered several wild animals while they recover or before they are sent to a reserve. Among the animals they have fostered are elephants, giraffes, zebras, cheetahs, leopards, hippos and more.

While she loves rock, she’s also a sucker for 2000s pop. Please don’t ask her about modern artists because she’s clueless. 

She’s fed up with the Mean Girl jokes, we get it she grew up in Africa and she’s white.

She is a proud Jewish girl and follows many traditions. She does attend the local synagogue during Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. And of course, Hanukkah is her favorite holiday. Her family practices Reform Judaism, so she doesn’t follow a kosher diet.

Eden was raised as a vegan and her whole family is vegan. In the past years, she has been in the process of becoming vegetarian.

Favorites: Anything written by Agatha Christie(book); Say Anything (1989) (movie); Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fear (song); 

Again, no one asked me but I will reply: “Ella, does Eden hate Iker?” “Well, thanks for asking. In a shocking turn of events, no she doesn’t. How come you might ask? Well, she doesn’t hate anyone but if she ever did then yes, she would hate him.”

pinterest | wanted connections

[dashielldeveron]

Viper VIII: Inter Vivos

*author slaps bumper sticker across ass that reads I BREAK FOR QUARANTINE* 

Summary: You have a thought that only Steve Urkel and black-out drunks can have: did I do that?

Warnings: swears, the law. Murder/death. Stupid internet comments.

Show (3719) Comments on “There is Nothing New Under the Sun, But You Are New in Your Conglomeration.”

skellingtonbabey: thanks for putting all of the *gestures vaguely* into historical context. no one’s ever bothered to explain this shit to me, especially in such simple and thorough language. it’s like every other resource i try to learn from is stylistically designed to make me more confused.

readyplayer69: Just because it’s from the 60s and is racist doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have intrinsic value based on the goal towards which it was working. You’re a fucking lunatic. I have a degree in political science, so I know what the fuck I’m about. Though some of the protests may have excluded the minorities you’re talking about, it doesn’t mean that they weren’t ultimately working towards good fucking policies for everyone involved. It’s not like they were doing anything important then anyway; white people had to be the mouthpiece for…Read More

volcanolesbian: bro have u seen the incels freaking out over this???? it got linked in their cursed forum and they SO BADLY wanted u 2 hate women now. like you can regress from being a feminist once you’ve woken up. they’re giving u shit bc you called out the racist terrorists who were active in their community lmao. i can post screenshots if u want. But bruv it’s like they haven’t read anything you’ve written before lol

mozARTsexandviolins: I get when you say that ingenuity spawns ideals for the greater good, but don’t you think tradition has its place? How do we know if the new can spawn the greater good? How do we judge ourselves? Who watches the watchers?

simpleplan2eatthedirt: cool cool nice nice.  protesting is awesome, but be sure to get out there to fucking VOTE, people!!! Here’s a link to register to vote.

EaterJohn: Hello. It is nice to hear from you again, Epiales. Always a treat. Very insightful commentary on modern and past protests. I didn’t know about all of the revolutions in Europe 1848. I’ve send this to my co, and it’s already sparked a good conversation about who we are as a protesting people as we stand in history. Again, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering when the next article in your “Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times” series was going to be released? It’s my…Read More

horneyvulcanbasterd: @mozARTsexandviolins Is that a Star Trek reference? Bc if so the answer’s Starfleet Command lol

MrsKatsukiBakagou: epiales. you have watered my crops and harvested my fields. thank you for the food.

mightiestavengereatmyass: eat shit and die, commie scum. your just a hired propagandaist for the fucking alt-left, aren’t you? You have no right to be running your collum in a real newspaper or on this fucking website. sending u anthrax in the mail would be too cool a death for you. I hope your so-called terrorist groupsfind out where you live and fucking murder you in the middle of the night. fukcs like you are the reason the country is going to shit the police have a total constitutional right int aht jurisdiction to enter. They had a no knock…Read More

fuckyouit’sjanuary: @readyplayer69 [image attached] [image description: blonde woman with caption reading, “I can tolerate racism, but I draw the line at looting the local target]

saltnpepa!!diner707: Hi. I’m trying to cite this piece in an essay, but your publisher isn’t listed on your website. Would you suggest using the NYT as the source in my bib? If it helps, this is due new week; idk if this will run in the NYT by then. Thanks

“I’m sending someone on a grocery run this morning,” said Tom, thumbs tapping away on his phone, “Do you need anything? Want anything?”

You glanced up from your laptop, closing it as much as you could without the light dimming. “I think I’m good, unless you used the last of the shredded cheese at some point.”

“Shredded…cheese,” he said under his breath, typing, “You mentioned capri-suns the other day.”

“Yeah, but I can tolerate the nasty, new flavour. No rush. Here’s a wild idea,” you said, and you waited until he looked up from his phone, a couple of ungelled curls falling over his forehead. “What if—now, don’t dismiss me as crazy; hear me out—what if we went to the store ourselves?”

“Again, no.” Tom grasping his coffee by the round of the mug, despite there being a perfectly functional handle. “Stop pressing me for it.”

“I’m not asking to go to a damn Broadway play. I’m asking to go to the closest 7-11,” you said, jiggling your leg and then making a conscious decision to stop fidgeting, instead scooting your chair closer under the table so that the arms slid underneath.

Tom hummed, his eyes not leaving his phone screen, but when you didn’t continue, he raised an eyebrow as he scowled at you. “Broadway is shut down because of the bomb threat.”

“Fuck off; you know what I meant.”

“Viper,” said Tom, and he locked his phone to set it on his napkin. “Do you want to get assassinated?”

“The term assassination implies I’m getting murdered for political reasons instead of the copious other crimes you’ve had me commit. So, I invite it.” Put your hands on the table where he can see them; it makes you seem more trustworthy. “Does 7-11 have an open carry policy?”

“If it’s any consolation, the renovated office should be waiting for you when you return.”

“It’s not.” You lifted your mug to your lips. “Working from here only makes me feel like a damn bureaucrat. Like I have no stake in the matter. I don’t want to become detached from everything; I might make a callous decision and send people where they can’t come back.”

“Keep watching yourself. If you stay on guard,” said Tom, running his middle finger around the rim of his mug, “then you won’t stray from me.”

“I’m useless here.”

“Then maybe you should become accustomed to the idea of being useless.”

Swallowing, you stared down into your tea. “There’s only so much I can get done through answering emails. Not to mention I hate answering emails. That’s how you get more emails.”

“Harrison has been telling me that your schematics have been more thorough since you’ve been holed up in here.” Tom tipped his mug all the way back to get the last of his coffee. “You’re still being just as productive, if not more methodical.”

“Did you mean obsessive? I have—I’ve had too much time to think. I’d rather not be alone with my thoughts, if I can help it.”

***

You could only read so much before losing your mind. You could only deal with so many of the same exact problems over and over again for lower level soldiers. You could only chart so many stars. You could only read so much fanfiction (if your identity thief were tracking your phone, he’d probably be baffled as to why you kept reading fic for fandoms you weren’t even a part of due to the desire for new ideas).

You could only give Glory Pham so many excuses as to why you’re not with her in person at the Museum of Natural History.

Sucking in through your teeth, you hovered your fingers above the keyboard.

Dear Ms. Pham,

Glad to hear John Mulaney’s signed on. Next step would be to ensure de Blasio doesn’t directly interact with him, given their history. Perhaps I should proof his set beforehand?

Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that I cannot attend the briefing in person yet again. I am currently indisposed, seeing as I am currently in hiding at my hot boss’s house, due to how dead I might be should I leave it (thus the basis of its appeal). Not to mention that if you criticise my blazer choices again, I shall peel the skin off your perfectly made-up face. Get fucked; getting your eyeliner tattooed on was a hell of a decision.

You shook your head, backspaced the last few lines, and stretched towards the wicker end table to grab your glass of pink lemonade, and you stole a glance at Tom’s work as you did so. A couple of files spread across his white wicker lounger (two blue files [socials of the family], two green [recent bids], a yellow [Manhattan locations], and a brown [requests from politicians, upper East side]). The pink sticky-notes had your and his written exchanges and edits on certain papers, and his laptop was open, the screen dimmed, while he copied something into a notebook with his cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear, just listening to the computerised voice.

He had joined you on the back porch to work remotely, claiming he couldn’t go into the city today due to the absence of news on Zendaya—if any information arose, he’d said he wanted your diagnosis immediately.

You wiped your forehead with your sleeve as a sweat drop slinked behind Tom’s ear. Even Tessa wouldn’t run in the heat; she’d curled up by the porch railing, her tail slapping against her water bowl. In an experiment to see if she wanted to spend some time outside, you’d slid the glass door open for Trout, to which she turned around to retreat to the bedroom.

Not all of the clothes you’d ordered had arrived yet, so you were stuck wearing autumnal clothes with long sleeves. To exacerbate matters, you were constantly moving—jiggling your leg, tapping your fingers—you couldn’t sit still for very long anymore; you had taken to pacing the porch when you couldn’t concentrate on the stars.

(Once, Tom had come out at night to check on you, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and sitting in silence with you. He’d made you go to bed after a while, claiming you’d run yourself into the ground if you kept this restlessness up.)

When your phone beeped, the both of you jolted at the sound. Tom hung up on the robotic voice as you scrambled to your phone, and he bent your way. “Is it Zendaya?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shook your head. “No. Looks like it’s a jailbreak.”

Tom sighed, his shoulders heaving as he eased back in his seat. “Where from?”

“I don’t even care,” you said, letting your phone fall to your lap. You slumped back in your chair, shielding your eyes from the sun with your arm. But you straightened yourself again and checked. “From Central. They don’t even know who’s all escaped yet.”

“It’d be too much of a gift if New York City would fucking relax for five minutes.”

“It seems like it’s in more uproar than usual lately,” you said, sipping through the reusable straw of your pink lemonade. “Do you suppose it’s our fault?”

Tom took a moment to pluck his damp t-shirt away from his chest. “I don’t think we’re instigating. If anything, we’re simply reacting to chaos.” He stood up and stretched, raising his arms above his head—his biceps strained at the sleeves, and the hem rose above his v-lines. “Unless you’re doing something I don’t know about.”

Ah, casual suspicion. “You’ve caught me,” you said as he approached Tessa and crouched next to her, “I’ve been running a koi smuggling gig on the side.”

“Why koi?” He held out his hand for Tessa to sniff, and she readily accepted his hand for pats. “Are they hard to get?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging, “but I’ve been wondering if they’d be able to survive in your grist mill pond. You look through that water straight to the bottom, nothing living in your way. Just rocks and old equipment.”

Tom sat against the porch railing with a jittery Tessa partially in his lap. “Should we get some?”

“Oh, fuck off, Tom,” you said, grinning, a sweat drop falling onto your mousepad as you shook your head, “You can’t entertain every little pipedream I have.”

“Watch me. What do you want for Christmas?”

You ducked your head, biting your lip. “Promise me something.”

“Provided it’s not my head on a stake, I will,” he said, scratching Tessa behind her ears and cringing a bit when she stretched to lick his face.

“Then we’re going in person to the pre-opening fundraising gala for the Gawain Diamond.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Viper.”

“Bitch, I got John Mulaney to sign on to do the opening monologue, and he’s probably gonna roast de Blasio again. I’m not missing that.”

Your phone blared an alert again, and both of you held your breath as you unlocked it.

“Got a list of prisoners who escaped. Small group. Delores, Larson, Duncan, Mays, Selvin,” you said, “There’s more, but I don’t know them. Tell us something important, by God. Anyway, we’re going. I didn’t say I was going alone, did I? You’ll be there. I’ll be safe, and you’ll be safe.”

His jaw shifting to the side, Tom stilled his hand on Tessa’s back, and then he lifted it to flick sweat off his neck. “How many of us maximum can you get in?”

“It’s a fundraiser for idiotic rich people; if there are too many people without a name, they’ll be noticed.”

“It can’t be just us.”

“Why? Afraid you can’t protect me on your own?”

“Now, don’t start that.” Tom herded Tessa off his lap and onto her outside bed. “I’m not falling for it.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fully aware you’re capable of ripping me in half,” you said, draining your pink lemonade, the airy suction coming through your straw (almost loud enough that you couldn’t hear Tom’s sputtering over it—almost—and his phone beeping). “Want me to get that?”

“Bring it here,” he said, and you snatched it while he sat on the railing, dangling his legs off the side.

“It’s,” you said, eyebrows shooting to your hairline as you read the little notification, “It’s a tweet from Zendaya.” You tossed it to him to unlock and leant on the railing next to him, arm grazing his thigh with a heightened awareness of how close you were to his sweaty, sweaty abdomen. No! No time to thirst. Friend time.

Tom unlocked his phone and held it at your eye level, turning it horizontally as he pulled up the tweet.

ZENDAYA (@ZendayaMedias): Felt cute. Might delete later.

[video]

Tom pulled up the clip, waiting for it to load. “Why didn’t she post it to instagram, then?”

“The finer details of social media are an enigma. Do I look like I know,” you said, and his thumb hovered over the play button.

He cranked the volume up before pressing play, having to try twice due to how slippery his fingers were. “I wonder if Haz has seen this yet.”

A vertical shot of a murky, grey sky from the bow of a boat and dark ocean as far as the camera can see. It pans across the starboard side, and this boat is the only one in sight.

Only the sound of waves striking the boat.

The camera tilts down. Zendaya’s writhing on the deck, furiously straining against rope bonds that line up the entirety of her arms and up her calves; she’s yelling furiously at the person behind the camera through duct tape.

Scuffed, black boots roll Z to the starboard gunwale. She’s still fighting, still shouting.

The camera trucks to the right; before, the pair of cinderblocks attached to her feet were concealed. It returns to her face. A glove grabs part of her hair to show the weights tied into it. She bucks up to headbutt the camera; he avoids it.

Tom clenched his free hand on his thigh. “We’re running another scan for that black-stubble bell jackass from her instagram; did we have any fucking leads at all? What’s his fucking motivation? So he slept with her, allegedly; did she say no to a second time? Doesn’t fucking merit—”

The boot kicks the cinderblocks off the boat, and the camera tilts down to follow the trail of bubbles.

It’s quiet.

But then the camera pans to portside, where the guy in the picture with Zendaya is similarly tied up, but he’s openly weeping and shaking his head. He’s got something drawn on his forehead in black marker. The cameraman steps closer to focus on it: it’s a circle with an upward curve resting on top of it.

He’s still wearing the bell necklace.

Then the cameraman backs away and raises a gloved hand, in which a gun is aimed at the other’s forehead.

The bullet goes through the circle, and the bell rattles as he��s kicked off. Fewer bubbles.

Then the camera tilts up to show off the boat’s surroundings: a black and barren ocean, as far as the eye can see.

When the video started to loop, Tom switched his screen off, his phone hanging loosely in his grip. You released of his thigh once you noticed you’d grabbed onto him, and the evidence of your touch faded as the fabric relaxed.

His eyes glossed over at the blank screen, and his mouth opened before closing again, running his tongue over his lower lip. Tom brought a fist to his mouth and furrowed his brow, his hand hardly concealing the growing tremble of his jaw.

You took a step away from him, rubbing your arms as you ducked your head. “I’m going back inside,” you said, hoping Trout felt like being clutched to your chest, “I’m cold.”

***

The next morning, your mouth felt heavy and dry. You sneaked out as the sun was rising to go hide in the woods surrounding Tom’s house, but you talked yourself out of it. He would make too much of a fuss if he couldn’t find you—but you could delay the inevitable conversation even further. Both of you had separated and kept to yourselves the rest of the evening. Kept quiet.

So you rounded the outside of the house. You’re not camping out in a fucking copse. When you reached the pond, you scanned it for a dry place to hide, but nothing really held any appeal, save for the rounded platform where the mill wheel used to spin, its spoke notches overflowing with moss. You managed to get to it after scrambling alongside the stones for a few minutes, and though it didn’t look like you could get down the same way, you settled against the wall, scraping some moss out of the notches so that your feet could rest more comfortably in them.

(Dr. Prine called ten minutes after you sent her the email. “Did you send me the correct article?”

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing your face wash onto your cheeks, “Considering it’s the only one I have ready, and I can’t bring myself to write anything. I tried. I just fucking can’t.”

“I don’t think you want this published at this point in your life.”

“I don’t fucking care. Whoever’s using my pen name probably knows who the fuck I am in general. Just publish it.”

“Honey,” said Dr. Prine, her voice softening (and fumbling, like she was holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder), “You should probably rethink this. It’s going to connect Epiales you back to Viper you. Get some sleep; eat breakfast. Call me back then.”

“It’s an appropriate article for the political climate.”

“Not for your personal life.”

“I don’t fucking care,” you said between splashing water on your face, “I don’t. It’s a good fucking article, and hopefully, it can affect people for the upcoming election. Fuck self-preservation. Send it to the Times already.”

“Did I dial the wrong number?”

“Hilarious, Dr. Prine. I know it’s not the smartest thing for me to do, but I can’t—absolutely can’t—write anything. I don’t know for how long, but for now, at least.” You blotted your face dry. “I’ve got to meet standard deadlines if I’m keeping my column. It’s really only dangerous if Tom reads it and makes the connection, and his brain is offline right now.”

And so Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times, chapter twelve, “The Political Tradition as Mob Rule,” would be published on Saturday. It’s a little too in the know about the mafia, but hey, you had written it on a whim a month ago, and you were known for your extensive research, anyway. It most likely shouldn’t be too different from your other exposés, though they weren’t on topics that were deliberately misleading the public by what information was out there.

The more you thought about it, it was almost like you wanted to reveal yourself, wanted to get stabbed while you were sleeping, because there’s an overwhelming question rolling around in your brain like a mis-weighted shooter marble: is this—)

“It’s not your fault.”

With crossed arms, Tom leant against the stone wall, his leg bent back for his bare foot to rest flat against it. He glanced sideways at you, sitting on your mill wheel perch almost halfway across the pond, but closer to the far side than to him.

He’s got major bedhead, his curls just fucking flopping about out of his part, and even from where you are, his face burned red amidst wet tracks trailing down it. Still, thank God for little mercies—his biceps were fucking straining the sleeves of his white t-shirt, and those idiotic, blessed grey sweatpants were low on his hips.

You lifted your head from your knees but still clutched them to your chest. “You’re not going out, then?”

“Of course not,” Tom said, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can’t be crying during a meeting, yeah?”

“Been boxing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not really.”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip and sighed, and then he slid his hands into his pockets, his eyes glossing over while he watched the moss you’d picked off float in the pond.

You’re not going to fucking cry. Tom came out here for a reason. He has a purpose. All you have to do is wait.

Eventually, he said, “You’re avoiding what I said.”

You tilted your head.

“Listen, I know you’re beating yourself up about it. It’s not your fault this happened. None of this is your fault. Hey.” Tom tapped the wall, the travelling reverberations making you look up at him. “Whoever’s doing this is doing it of their own volition and not because of you. You hold no culpability for this.”

“Bruh,” you said, “One of your best friends is dead, and you’re comforting me? I thought I was the masochist.”

Tom scowled, his brow furrowing. “Viper—”

“I can’t interact with someone without putting them in danger, at a disturbingly high rate. You want me to enumerate where I’ve stuck my nose in not my business and people have gotten killed? Senator Hernandez, Isadora,” you began, holding up two fingers, “The nine men guarding Isadora, Maccabruno, Polson—”

“Don’t you dare do that to yourself.” Tom took a step forward, his foot almost curving into the pond. “You didn’t use the knife. You didn’t pull any triggers.”

“Yeah, but I sent them there. And a good many of them went because it was their job.” You sneered and propped your chin on your knees again.

“And it’s part of your job—”

“Yeah, whatever. Your friend is dead, and I have no home. I’ve stopped contacting the few people in my circle on the chance that they get dragged into this—Grace, Adrien—he’s the lights specialist guy, in case you don’t remember—I’ve got to email Glory, but that can’t be helped. And Dr. Prine only—fuck,” you said, dragging your hands down your face. “I don’t want anything to fucking happen to Dr. Prine. Or your family, for that matter.”

“Everyone not involved in the business is currently in hiding upstate,” said Tom, eyes narrowed as he glared at you. “If you like, I can ensure the same—”

“Stop acting so damn calm, Tom.” You let your legs dangle off the platform, hands clenching the edges. “I don’t have any strings left to pull. And fucking hell, I know that it would be extremely and absurdly conceited of me to believe that this series of crimes is aimed specifically at me, because how deluded, how arrogant could I get—but goddammit, this stuff feels a little too personalised. It feels like this person knows me.”

Tom clicked his tongue. “Don’t you think it’s worth something that Glory Pham has been left alone? He knows how to get into Crosscreek, yet Glory hasn’t been touched. Is that not worthwhile?”

Your eyes watered, but you ducked your head so that he couldn’t see—but you released a dry sob (Fuck! Now is not the time for crying! Now is the time for being badass! Frown, or something!).

Tom spoke so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Do you want to leave?”

God, no. But it would make you feel like less of a burden. “Let me find an apartment first.”

“No, not like that. Hey, V. Look at me,” he said, and he tapped on the wall again.

You wouldn’t. Not like this. Not when your nose was running and when you didn’t have a plan.

“Please look at me, Viper.”

Glowering, you raised your head, lifting your chin higher than normal to seem confident, and oh, God—his eyes were wide and gentle; he’s leaning as far as he can over the pond, still unable to reach you.

“What I meant was if you wanted to leave the mob.”

It rang through your head like a distant cathedral bell, chiming through a deserted town—but then you were farther, out on the mountains, still listening to faint clanging.

“You’d have to kill me,” you said, shaking your head, “Don’t you remember?”

“Fuck,” Tom was saying, sucking in through his teeth, and after glancing at the water, he started jogging around the pond.

“I swore. I bled. And then even after that—then you knighted me.” You inhaled sharply when he reached the stones you’d climbed. “I’ve let you down.”

“Viper, get the fuck down from there and come here,” he said, and he withdrew, winching, when he stepped on a sharp edge.

“We shouldn’t have met,” you said, looking over your shoulder at him, and Tom froze, his hand partially gripping a hole in the stone wall. “I shouldn’t have taken the job. I should have gone to a different city. I should have—”

“Wasted your life away in the shadows? Just shut up and get down here.”

“Ah! The fuck?” You swatted his hand away when it grazed the platform, and when he climbed up another step, you pushed yourself off the platform and into the pond.

The first thing that struck you was how quiet everything was once the bubbles dissipated, and then you noticed how clear the water was, even from within it—glancing down, you could easily see your feet treading water above the broken grist mill wheels that had sunken to the bottom.

Before you could take it in to feel the emptiness in your chest, bubbles filled your vision again—and then his hands were grappling for you, grasping at your clothes, and pulling you towards the surface.

“I wasn’t fucking drowning,” you said, sliding a hand back through your hair, while Tom shook his head to flick off excess water. “I was fine without—”

“I know you weren’t.” Tom gripped your waist tightly enough to be painful, and he slid his other hand up between your shoulder blades. “I know. You wouldn’t die on me, and I’m not letting anyone else lay their hands on you. C’mon, arms around.”

He guided your arms around his waist, and once you had a good grip (hands sliding up his back), he kicked off to swim to the stone wall, backing you into it. Your toes skimmed the bottom of the pond, but Tom kept your head above the water, his thumbs circling your hipbones through your wet clothes.

Tom closed his eyes, his eyelashes heavy with water droplets. “There’s no solution to this where you die, got it?”

“Shucks.”

“I mean it. Talk to me. Tell me what you can.” Tom let out a breath slowly, and he bent to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “Please,” he said once you tensed up, his breath hot through your wet shirt, “Won’t you let me in?”

(Fuck fuck fuck fuck his chest is flush against yours; he’s so warm, so damn warm all over, and the water’s chill only makes you want to cling to him more, fuck.)

“You won’t like me,” you said, tentatively lifting a hand to curl your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly, “I’m not whom I’ve presented to you. I don’t have it under control.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Tom turned his head towards you; his lips almost grazed your neck (you relish their warmth anyway). “You wouldn’t be human, otherwise.”

“I don’t know an awful lot. Some days it seems like all I do is guesswork.” You grimaced but kept the slim distance from Tom’s mouth. If he wanted to, he would. “I’m lost completely on whoever the fake Epiales is. I keep looking for a pattern in everything, even—even so far back as to—”

You stuttered. Tom had pressed his lips to the base of your neck.

“There’s no consistency,” he said, nuzzling his nose against the spot where your neck met shoulder, “but there’s got to be a larger plan. I get it. The whole case is like a hydra, and we’re chopping blindly at the heads.”

(Oh, my God, he kissed you? He kiss the neck? He?)

“Oh! I forgot to tell you.” Tom pulled away to look you in the eye, and your mouth hung open of its own accord—come back! “I made myself watch the video again.” His jaw shifted. “To see if I missed anything, and I did. This time, I recognised the symbol on the guy’s forehead.” Tom lightly traced it onto your forehead with his middle finger. “It’s a zodiac symbol. It’s the one for Taurus.”

You nodded, still not really thinking at full capacity. “Great. Another piece of evidence that I won’t be able to make fucking sense of. Goddammit. I’m so useless. Goddammit,” you said, dropping your hand from his hair into the water with a splash. “Tom, I don’t talk to my mother much anymore. She doesn’t know where or who I am, and to be honest, I don’t know who I am, either. I don’t know where the truth is.”

You nearly slapped him when you cupped his cheek, like you were desperate, like you had to be touching him, skin on skin, that instant. It’d be nice if he would close his eyes and lean into your touch, maybe kiss your palm, but Tom simply stared at you in shock, eyes wide, brows raised, mouth pinched.

Don’t tell him, you whore. You built this fucking kingdom with its walls and bastions so that you would be safe when the outer defences crumbled. You’ve set aside parts of yourself into neat little boxes so that you can throw any of them away at any time and escaped unscathed. Don’t you fucking dare screw that up. Tom doesn’t know about Epiales so that you can expose and destroy him if you’re on his chopping block; it’s insurance for when everything falls.

Bitch, since when do you want to be honest and raw and vulnerable around anyone?

You can’t let him in.

“You’re still a woman of honour,” Tom said, and—oh, God, oh, fuck—he’s easing his hands down your body, his chest pressed against yours again, and he’s sliding them down your thighs to hook underneath your knees, and he’s hitched you up against the wall, the definition of his muscles real and palpable through the wet clothes, warm, warm, warm—

“I should apologise,” you said, turning your head to the side while he steered your legs around his waist, “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“You can’t?” Tom shifted you upwards, and that’s it; your heat is directly against him; you can feel every pull and tensing of his tendons, and if he keeps moving the way he is, then you’ll—

“I’m so sorry for making this about me when Z was closer to you. We shouldn’t waste time on me; we need to be searching, arranging a funeral if we can’t find anything.” You scrunched your eyes shut.

“You’re deflecting.” Tom let out a shuddery sigh. “I’ve lost too many people. Don’t make me lose you when you’re right in front of me,” he said, and he pressed his lips right below your ear.

You flinched away on impulse but tried to relax into him, blinking profusely.

Tom pushed against you (not localised enough to qualify as a thrust), and he cleared his throat before pulling away from your neck. “Listen, please. Please.” He shifted your weight to one hand and gripped your chin with his freed one. His eyes flickered to your mouth before he moved to rest his hand on your cheek. “You’re invaluable. Irreplaceable. You are no burden and are not at fault.” He clenched his jaw. “But I know you’re keeping something from me, and I will make the answer fall from your lips soon.”

Your own chin was shaking, and he was too close. If you put aside separate-self-as-insurance for a moment, let’s consider Tom did find out about Epiales. Would he control you through it? Would he use you to influence those he couldn’t reach? Would he grab hold of Dr. Prine? He might squeeze your life and time through his fist, and your freedom would be gone. Epiales was your freedom, your space to create and connect.

He was too close.

“You’ve got to promise not to hate me,” you said, and when he raised an eyebrow, you made your decision to lean in.

“No,” he said, and—and your lips met his cheek.

He’d turned his head.

After all that, he’s going to turn his head?

“No,” he said again, taking your chin again and leading you away, back to leaning against the stone wall, “I don’t want our first kiss connected to the memory of mourning. I can wait a bit longer.”

Tom released your legs, letting them sink. “You once told me that if you let yourself be vulnerable, you didn’t want an audience. I think,” he said, frowning, “I think you still see me as an outsider. As a member of that audience. And again, you said that you didn’t want it if it weren’t real.” He stepped away from you entirely, and he started wading towards the edge of the pond. “I’m going to hold you to the same standard. I’ll wait until you’re ready to be real with me.”

Tom slinked out of the pond, flicking away what excess water he could, and he squinted into the sun on the horizon. He shook his head, water flying, and he glanced back at you and scoffed. “Easy, sweetheart. No need to wear your heart on your sleeve now.”

His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner towards the door.

The sun is rising, and you feel rather cold.

***

inter vivos: between the living

***

taglist: @hollandroos @madmadmilk @parkerroos @parsleysbaby @z-ukos @pparkerwrites @lunamyangel @stealth-spiderr @presidentbttrflyfreak @paradoxparker @bi-writes @astronomyparkers @infamous-webhead @laurfangirl424 @softspideys @gryffinpuffs @plethoraofpuppies @laucontrerasv @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @spiderboytotherescue @cassiopeiaskies

[homoose]

Love Has a Learning Curve: Part III (x OC)

Summary: Spencer has to face Anita and Sam— and learns a little about Maggie’s past. Maggie and Spencer babysit for Michael and Henry. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x OC

Category: fluff, a tiny smidge of hurt/comfort

Warnings/Includes: implied smut, drinking/alcohol, vague mentions of previous emotional/mental abuse (Owen)

Word count: 4.2k

a/n: This picks up right after the end of the tmsidk epilogue! I also worked two requests in here.

Series Masterlist

———

Spencer stacked the last of the tiny chairs in the center of the room, stepping back and dusting his palms on his trousers. He looked over to see Maggie playing a sort of container tetris with the bins of supplies in her closet. He smiled a little to himself, his head still in the metaphorical clouds with her confession of love. 

She maneuvered the bins to her satisfaction and shut the closet doors, pushing against them to squeeze everything in until the latch clicked. She turned to see him watching her and wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. She gave him a wink and a grin, and he was falling all over again. 

She perched on the corner of her desk with a tired sigh, and he made his way across the room to her. She reached for him as soon as he was within arms length, wrapping her arms around his middle. She snuggled into his chest, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go to dinner to celebrate.”

She laughed and looked up at him. “Celebrate what?”

He shrugged. “You. Summer.” He brought his arms around her shoulders. “Love.”

She smiled and scrunched her nose at him. “You just want me to say it again.”

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

Her hands came to rest on his hips, her fingers squeezing lightly. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he answered immediately and rather dreamily.

“Yo, Brooksy!” 

The call of her name from the hallway startled them both. Anita began to step over the threshold, continuing, “You ready to get absolutely crunk tonight or— oh.” She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes tracking Spencer’s frame. “Dr. Reid.”

Spencer stepped back from Maggie, smiling a little awkwardly at the formality and giving a wave. “Mrs. Lopez. It’s, um— it’s nice to see you again.”

Anita hummed noncommittally, and Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets. She turned her attention back to Maggie. “So, are we going out or what?”

Maggie groaned. “Anita, I’m exhausted. Can we keep it low key? Oh!” Her eyes lit up with an idea, and Spencer could already see where this was going. “Spence and I were gonna get dinner to celebrate, um— summer. Call Sam; we’ll all just go together.”

Anita spared a glance in Spencer’s direction before sighing heavily. “Fine. But I’m drinking.” With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared back into the hallway.

Maggie chuckled. “I swear she’s not actually an alcoholic.” Her eyes landed on Spencer’s face, and she smiled gently. “I know you weren’t expecting a Meet the Friends night, but it’ll be fun.”

“She hates me,” Spencer surmised.

“She does not hate you.” Maggie stood from the desk, pressed a reassuring peck to his lips. “She’s just… protective. That’s all.”

…

Maggie was entirely wrong. Anita Lopez hated him. That was the only explanation for her absolutely icy demeanor. 

They’d met up with her and Sam at a Mexican restaurant in Tenleytown. Sam was wonderfully kind and funny, even apologizing for having “flipped him the bird” the last time she saw him. And it was a good thing Sam was being friendly, because Anita was decidedly… less so. 

Spencer understood completely of course. He’d broken Maggie’s heart. Penelope had been ready to hunt her down at the mere thought of him being hurt. As Maggie’s best friend, Anita had every right to be wary of him. She had every right to hate him. He’d just... hoped that she wouldn’t. 

Thankfully, Maggie and Sam were more than happy to carry the conversation— he and Anita chiming in here and there. He learned that Sam worked as an attorney at a firm specializing in family law. She and Anita had two kids, Riley and Sidney— one in 2nd grade and the other in preschool. 

“Maggie is still Riley’s favorite teacher ever,” Sam told him. “I mean, it helps when she’s also your aunt, I guess.”

“He didn’t get any special treatment,” Maggie insisted. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, she laughed. “Okay, maybe a little special treatment. But you raised a good kid! And I can’t help it that he was the most trustworthy of the bunch.”

“Oh my god, the field trip,” Sam groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. 

“The field trip!” Maggie turned to Spencer. “My group of kiddos from two years ago— they were kind of a tough group.”

“Kind of?” Anita squeaked. “Let me just tell you, I can hear them through the floor. The entire middle school is literally dreading the day they make it upstairs.”

Sam piped in, “I chaperoned on said field trip to the zoo. And I vowed that I will never, ever go on another field trip. Ever.”

“What happened?” Spencer asked incredulously. 

“So many things,” Sam baited. 

Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a cackle, leaning a bit into Spencer’s shoulder. He couldn’t help but smile, looking around at the three women. Even Anita was chuckling, and she’d barely cracked a smile all evening. 

“Okay, so many things happened,” Maggie started, “but the worst was—”

“The poop!” Sam wheezed. “The poop was the worst part of that day. The smell alone, oh my god.”

Maggie composed herself as best she could, gesturing over the table. “So after this nightmare of a day, we get on the bus, and there’s this— smell.”

“The absolute worst smell you’ve ever smelled, Spencer,” Sam assured. 

“It’s awful. It’s so bad,” Maggie agreed. “And I’m literally going seat to seat, checking to make sure no one has shit themselves.”

“You could not pay me enough,” Anita chimed in. 

“And I get to the seat that is very clearly where the smell is coming from. And I can’t, like— hold my nose, right? I don’t want to embarrass him!” Maggie turned to Spencer with flushed cheeks. “So I ask, ‘Sweetheart, did you have a bathroom accident?’”

Spencer let out a nervous laugh. “Oh no.” 

“But oh, it wasn’t a bathroom accident,” Maggie clarified, waving her hand. “No, no— that would be too easy. This child had somehow managed to obtain copious amounts of poop from one of the zoo animals and packed it into his lunchbox to take home.”

Spencer could feel his jaw drop. “Oh my god.”

“So, he unzips his lunchbox and it’s just— overflowing with shit.” Maggie dropped her head into her hands, overcome with giggles. 

“And don’t forget the worst part: his mom was on the field trip!” Sam lamented, throwing her hands up. “I will never understand.”

Maggie lifted her head with an exasperated grin, and he wasn’t sure if it was the story or the fact that she loved him, but Spencer felt like he could float away into outer space. 

“I told you I had a lot of poop stories,” Maggie lamented to him, drawing another round of laughs. As they composed themselves, the waiter came by their table to clear some of their plates and refill their water.

“God, I said we were keeping it low key, and then I drank half a pitcher,” Maggie complained, pushing back from the table. “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

She gave Spencer a reassuring smile, and he tried not to panic as she stood and left him with Sam and Anita. And because the universe was toying with him, at that exact moment, Sam’s phone began to ring. She pulled it from her pocket with a sigh. 

“Shit— I’ve been waiting on this call all day.” She kissed Anita’s cheek and stood from the table. “So sorry; I’ll just be five minutes, I promise.”

With that, it was just the two of them, staring intently at their water glasses. Spencer was certain he should say something, but he wasn’t sure what. Anita broke the silence first. 

“You know what’s annoying?”

Spencer wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Considering that the issues one might classify as an annoyance vary for each individual person, there are over seven billion potential answers to that question.”

Anita tilted her head with an unimpressed purse of her lips. Spencer hedged, “And I understand now that it was probably rhetorical.”

“I actually kind of like you.” She leaned across the table with an irritated sigh. “I wanted to hate you, but I don’t.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m, um— I’m glad to hear that.”

“You’re good for her. Smart, humble, kind. Enamored with her, as you should be,” she deadpanned. She dropped her chin into her hand. “Almost as hot as she is.”

He laughed a little at that. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” She dropped her hand back to the table. She still didn’t crack a smile, and her gaze bore into him. “I don’t know how much you know about Owen, and she’d probably kill me for saying anything. But he was a real piece of shit.”

This was not the direction he thought this conversation would take. He didn’t know anything about Owen; he’d tried not to think too much about anyone Maggie might have been with before him. 

“It didn’t start out that way.” She drew her brows together. “Well, I don’t know— maybe he was always an asshole, and he was just good at hiding it.”

She shook her head and leaned back in her chair. “The point is, I didn’t know he was treating her like garbage until it was too late. He was already all…” She gestured wildly around her head. “In her head, telling her lies about herself, fucking her up, isolating her. For years he did that. And then it took her years to get him out of her head. To— unlearn all the lies. To build herself back up.” 

He could see her grinding her teeth, trying to calm down. He was intensely grateful to not be on the receiving end of Anita’s wrath. He was also immensely glad that Maggie had a friend like that. And his blood absolutely boiled at the thought of her ever feeling anything less than adored. 

“You’re a fed or whatever, so I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she continued, “but I would love nothing more than to put that fucker six feet under.” She ran her hand through her hair, and when she continued her voice was the quietest he’d ever heard it. “All that to say, I… I wasn’t there for her when Owen was destroying her from the inside out. And I will never let that happen again.” 

Anita locked eyes with him and her voice was resolved. “I like you, Spencer. And I want to keep it that way. So, just— don’t give me a reason not to.”

She didn’t drop her gaze, and he couldn’t quite think of the appropriate response. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His brain was still fixated on the idea that anyone had ever hurt the loveliest and kindest woman he’d ever met.

 “Where’s Sam?” Spencer turned just as Maggie slid back into the chair beside him, a comforting hand coming to rest on his knee. 

“Some bullshit from the office that her idiot partner can’t handle.” Anita raised her eyebrows at Spencer, and he nodded minutely. She shifted her gaze back to Maggie with a grin. “Don’t worry. I didn’t scare him too much.”

…

“Easy.” Spencer steadied Maggie with a hand on her waist as they made the way up the stairs to his apartment. 

“Jesus, I’m so sorry. I just— really can’t drink like I used to.” She clutched a little at the railing, and he held his breath until they were at the top of the stairs. 

He slipped an arm back around her waist as they crossed to his apartment door, fumbling with his keys and fighting back a shiver as she snuggled close and ran her hand low over his tummy. 

“Can’t believe I’m tipsy from a couple margaritas.”

“To be fair, you had four,” he chuckled, turning the key and pushing open the door. 

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “But I used to be able to have a whole pitcher and be totally fine.”

“A pitcher?” Spencer laughed as he locked the door and turned to face her. “I can’t even have one without being completely incapacitated.”

She ran her hands up from his waistband, over his chest, and wrapped them around his neck. “Mmm, so you’re a lightweight.”

“Very much so,” he confirmed, bringing his hands to her hips. 

“Just one more sweet thing to love about you, sugar.” 

He couldn’t stop the smile from stretching across his face at the endearment, the way that North Carolina dripped syrupy and thick over every syllable. She pulled him down to meet her in a sweet kiss, quickly deepening it as he dug his fingers into the softness of her hips. Her hands wound into his hair, tugging lightly and holding him close. 

He broke away to rest his forehead against hers and catch his breath. She laced their fingers together and leaned on him while she kicked off her shoes. He toed his own off and then allowed her to lead him toward his bedroom. 

She sat him down on the edge of the bed and straddled his lap, bringing her hands up to tangle in his curls once again. 

Before she could lean in for another kiss, he murmured, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous,” she teased, ghosting her lips over his.

“Ha, ha.” Part of him wanted to bring up Owen, but she was so happy and warm and comfortable in this moment. He didn’t want to ruin this night of celebration. He didn’t want to ruin this day that had been so full of love. They had plenty of time to discuss Owen. 

He wrapped his arms around her middle. “You’ve met Penelope. I’ve met Anita. Now that the school year is over… we could tell Michael.”

She pulled back, and the smile she gave him could only be described as radiant, and he knew he made the right decision. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

…

A week later, the pair of them were strolling up the sidewalk to the LaMontagne house. Will and JJ were long overdue for a date night, and Spencer had jumped at the opportunity for the two of them to babysit. When they reached the door, Spencer rang the bell and Maggie waited slightly behind him. 

They could hear the joy from behind the door before it even opened, Michael’s high pitched giggle and Will’s booming laugh. Spencer was already leaning down in preparation, and Michael absolutely launched into his arms as soon as the door swung open. Spencer clocked the moment that Michael spotted her, purely because he practically squealed and squirmed right out of Spencer’s grip. 

“I knew it!” Michael cried. 

He wrapped himself around Maggie’s legs and squeezed tightly, and she rubbed a hand over his hair with a bewildered smile. Michael broke away to turn back to Will with a grin. “I told you.”

“You did, buddy.” Will gave Spencer a lopsided smile as Michael tugged Maggie forward by the hand. “Michael had an… inklin’ that uncle Spencer might be friends with Ms. Brooks.”

“Not friends, Daddy,” Michael said exasperatedly. “He’s her boyfriend.”

“Oh, excuse me, sorry.” Will held his hands up in apology as he stepped aside to let them all in the door. “Michael had a feelin’ that uncle Spencer might be Ms. Brooks’ boyfriend.”

Maggie’s cheeks had turned a very pretty shade of pink. “What— um, what made you think that?” 

Michael waited patiently for her to take off her shoes. “Well firstly, he started picking me up all the time, which was nice but weird. And then he wouldn’t stop asking about you. It was kind of annoying.” Spencer made a choking sound, and Will stifled a laugh. 

“You guys wear the same shoes, and you both love Halloween and tea and reading. I knew you’d like him if he could be a guest reader.” As he led her into the living room, Michael continued, “Oh, and you wore his purple scarf. He doesn’t let anyone wear the purple scarf.”

Spencer vividly remembered that morning— she’d slept over after a midweek date night in April. The temperatures in DC had plummeted overnight, and the outfit she’d brought left her woefully under-dressed for the chilly spring day. He’d wrapped her up in the soft, purple scarf without a second thought. 

She caught his eye with a shrug, and Will tried not to look too smug. Spencer watched her be dragged further into the house, turning to Will with a sheepish smile.

“Well, guess I can’t take all the credit,” Will decided. “Who knew we had a mini matchmaker this whole time?”

Spencer huffed out a laugh as Michael pulled Maggie into the playroom. “This is the best,” Michael sighed. “Now we can play restaurant forever.”

…

Spencer pulled his legs up in the tiny chair, resting his elbows on his knees and taking a moment to watch the scene in front of him unfold. Usually on nights like this, Michael ran him ragged with demands for magic tricks, story time, and playing pretend. Tonight, he’d actually been able to catch up with middle school (middle school!) Henry, because Michael was totally and completely enthralled by Maggie. 

She was helping with the last of the setup for the “restaurant,” organizing Michael’s menus and straightening his clip-on tie. Of course he’d seen her with kids before. But something about being in this playroom— one that he’d spent so many hours in, watching two of his favorite kids grow up— had him feeling warm from head to toe. 

Henry had bounded down the stairs at the news that uncle Spencer was dating his former kindergarten teacher. He hadn’t realized that she’d taught Henry, too, although with the timeline of her teaching career he should have put two and two together. The generally reserved middle schooler had positively beamed when she gasped out, “Gosh, I always forget how tall you’ve gotten!”

And now three of his absolute favorite humans were in one room, and he couldn’t stop smiling. 

“Hen!” Michael called. 

Henry turned from his spot in the chair across from Spencer. “What?”

“You’re the chef,” Michael informed him. 

Maggie tilted her head. “I thought I was the chef?”

“No, no, no.” Michael pushed her toward the kid-sized table. “You and uncle Spencer are on a fancy date.”

Henry rolled his eyes playfully and stood from the chair, pulling it out for her like a perfect gentleman. She beamed at him and gave him a wink. “Thank you, sir.”

She dropped lightly into the chair across from Spencer and laughed a little at his folded limbs. “You look very comfortable.” 

He laughed and stretched his legs out straight. “The picture of comfort, really. These chairs were clearly designed with six foot men in mind.”

“I’m sorry I’m so under-dressed for our fancy dinner date,” she teased, dropping her chin into her hand. 

“You look stunning, as always.” He gestured to the messy braid Michael had folded her hair into. “I especially love what you’re doing with your hair.”

She sucked in a dramatic breath, bringing up her hand to pat lightly at her hair. “You’re making me blush, doctor.” She peeked behind her and then lowered her voice. “I’m probably going to cry when I try to brush the rats out.” 

He looked at her sympathetically. “I know the feeling. I think I’ve got a wide tooth comb, and I can help. I’ve gotten pretty good at detangling Michael’s handiwork.”

Before she could respond, Michael made his way to the table, holding a dish towel over his arm. “Good evening, sir, madam.” 

“Good evening,” they chorused, with barely suppressed grins. 

“Compliments of the chef.” Michael held out his hand to reveal two slightly smushed strawberries.

“Oh, wow,” Maggie said, eyes wide and gesturing to Spencer. “Honey, do you want to—”

Spencer waved his hand, eyeing the berries warily. “No, no, please, help yourself.”

Maggie held back a smile and accepted the strawberries, holding them carefully in her hand and turning her attention back to Michael. “Thank you so much. What a wonderful appetizer. Could we hear the specials?”

That helped Michael remember the menus, and he pulled them from his pocket and cleared his throat. He handed them the construction paper menus. “Our specials tonight are roasted octopus and a steak tartar.”

From the kitchen, Henry mumbled, “Tartare.” 

“Tartare. Steak tartare is our special,” Michael corrected. 

“Hmm, I don’t know if I’m that adventurous. Maybe my boyfriend is though,” Maggie told a grinning Michael. “What do you recommend for a picky eater?”

“My favorite is the chicken nuggets.”

“Well then, sign me up. One order of chicken nuggets.” Maggie handed him the menu. 

Spencer was still perusing the menu for Le Chateau LaMontagne. He smiled at Michael’s handwriting, but particularly at the places where he could tell Maggie had helped. “Everything looks delicious,” he finally decided, “but, you know... I think I’m also going to have the nuggets.”

…

When the boys were finally in bed, Spencer and Maggie settled down in the living room to untangle the mess of her hair. She sat on the floor in between his legs as he gently pulled each braid strand free. He smiled at the way she arched up into his touch, shivering when his fingers brushed over her neck. 

“You’re lucky,” he remarked, laying the last braid strand back into its original place. “Michael seems to have gotten a little better at braiding.”

She leaned her head back into his hands. “You detangled the whole thing?”

“Mmhm.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. She brought her hands up to hold him against her, trying to deepen the kiss before laughing at the awkward angle and giving up. 

He sat up as she stood and moved to the couch, snuggling up close to him and tucking herself under his arm. “I’m very lucky,” she agreed. “For many reasons.”

Her hand drifted to rest on his tummy, her fingers immediately tracing little shapes over the fabric of his shirt. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “And tired, too.”

“Hmm?” 

He leaned his cheek against her head. “When you get tired, you, um— you start drawing on my stomach.” 

Her finger paused. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” She shifted to raise her head to look at him, and he shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’ve just— noticed.”

She smiled a little sleepily. “You know I love all of you. But I— well, I don’t know, really. I just like your tummy.” She gave it a quick squeeze. “It’s just— nice and comfy and perfect for resting on.” 

He covered her hand with his own and leaned forward to press their mouths together. She drew his bottom lip in between her own, sucking a little and then giving it a quick peck before pulling back and stifling a yawn into his chest. “Man, I am tired.” She snuggled back into him and resumed her tummy tracing. “What, um— what else have you noticed?”

He rubbed his hand down her arm and pulled her impossibly closer. “You like to play with my hair.”

“Mmmm, guilty as charged.”

He smiled at the sleep creeping into her voice. “I like it, too.” He ran his fingers up to her shoulder, and then back down to the crook of her arm, soothing her closer to sleep. “Hmmmm. You always have at least one point of contact on my body at all times. It’s usually your hands, but sometimes it’s your head or even your toes— like when you tuck them under my leg.”

“Ugh— I’m sorry. Clingy and putting my feet on you,” she mumbled.

She might have been joking, but Anita’s words were replaying in his head. He couldn’t change what had happened in the past. He couldn’t go back and prevent her from being hurt by someone else. But he could be different in every way. He could be open and honest and vulnerable with her like he’d promised. 

“I’m not sorry. I love all of you,” he murmured, pulling her in closer and repeating her words back to her. 

“Even my feet?” 

He could also show her that there was absolutely nothing that he didn’t love about her. “Especially your feet.”

She huffed a sigh into his chest. “Y’got a foot thing I don’t know about?”

He laughed a little at that. “Only for yours. They’re very cute feet.”

“You’re weird,” she muttered, but she hugged him tighter when she said it.

“You love it.”

Her fingers on his tummy had come to rest comfortably just above his waistband, and he knew she was on the very edge of sleep. “Mmhm. Love you.”

He thought of all the little moments over the past few months.

Doesn’t live up to expectations? Sorry for overstepping. Are we dating? Sorry for being clingy. Sorry for taking so long to tell you. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

“I love you, too,” he murmured. “So much.”

———

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Series tags (x OC): @kyomito​

[harryandmolly]

Change of Pace - Epilogue (Late Summer 2019)

cowritten by @achinglyshawn

summary: Shawn and Maya meet again 10 years after life got in the way of love

warnings: language

wc: 3.5k

----------

Shawn doesn’t settle at the piano until the crowd at Emilia’s has grown. The loud chatter echoing in the small restaurant quiets when he turns down the music tinkling through the soundsystem. Heads turn towards the sleek black piano in the corner of the restaurant as he places his well-practiced fingers on the ivory keys. 

He speaks into the microphone as he begins to play his favorite melody. 

“This is a song about finding love again when you least expect it,” he coos softly, so as not to interrupt anyone who doesn’t care for the live music. 

(He’s not sure why you’d come to Emilia’s on a Thursday night if you don’t like live music, but to each their own.) 

“Maybe I had too many drinks, but that's just what I needed. I hope that you don't think that what I'm saying sounds conceited…” 

Chatter in the restaurant kicks up again, but those closest to him seem willing to forgo conversation for a free concert. It’s quiet in this little corner of Emilia’s, save for the plinking of the piano and the delicate croon of his falsetto. 

“When I look across the room, and you're staring right back at me, like somebody told a joke and we're the only ones laughing...” 

Maya’s at her new favorite table watching her old favorite guy do his favorite thing. Back in the day, she and Shawn used to cozy up in a booth in the far corner. They could be gross and kiss there without anyone looking at them funny. They were kids. 

Shawn plays regularly at Emilia’s now and Maya loves to watch, especially on days like today. Maya’s been in the studio she shares with Shawn since just after her sunrise surf. She’s had one of her first commissions since starting to paint semi-professionally in Avila and spent her whole day focusing on the piece — it’s a landscape, oil on canvas, based on a crumpled old Polaroid the client got from his grandparents of the boardwalk when they lived in Avila years before. It’s nice. Maya’s proud to do it. 

She and Shawn expanded his studio when the space next to his came available. Now it’s their studio. Mostly, she adds her artistry to his instruments, adding little painted elements or even much larger ones, like in the case of that first piano Shawn built. She ended up adding a whole gorgeous Avila sunset mural on top. It sold for a lot (!) more than expected. Her business acumen has also helped them in their new ventures together. 

Tonight is a welcome break from it, though. They’ve both been working themselves so hard to finish pieces commissioned by some of Margaret’s San Francisco finance friends. But tonight, back at Emilia’s like nothing ever changed and at the same time like they’re brand new, Shawn plays her song. 

Not her only song, obviously. He’s written her many over the years. This is the new one, the one he started a decade ago, tripped over through that first hazy summer and finished around the time they decided to move in to Maya’s cottage together. She’s heard it before, whispered into her hair, plucked quietly against the backdrop of sea and sand on their daybed outside. Never like this, in front of a crowd of strangers who mostly all know their story. 

Maya watches him smile as he sings the words like he always does, like he has a secret, like he got the girl in the end after all the trouble. It makes her smile too. 

Shawn takes a breath, suddenly aware of Maya’s eyes on him from across the room, though he hasn’t looked up since he began playing. 

“Don't know why I tried, ‘cause ain't nobody like you, familiar disappointment every single time I do…” 

She must’ve tucked into their new favorite table right as he started playing, or else she would’ve pressed a good luck kiss to his temple like she always does before he performs. She insists he doesn’t actually need luck, but they both like the tradition, anyway.

“Every single night my arms are not around you, my mind's still wrapped around you. 

Baby, tell me when you're ready, I'm waitin'. Baby, anytime you're ready, I'm waitin'...” 

He knows where she is without searching, so when he tilts his head and finally opens his eyes, she’s there, staring him down like he’s something magical she’s never seen before. His face heats, because even after all these years, being the sole focus of Maya’s attention makes his heart race. 

He catches her gaze with his and the corner of his mouth ticks up in a tender smile. Memories of the night before race through his mind and send a shiver down his spine; memories of staying up far too late to make love over and over until sleep pulled Maya under, with Shawn easily following. 

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of her as he continues to sing the words he’s already pressed into the curve of her neck while tangled together between their sheets. 

“Even ten years from now if you haven't found somebody I promise, I'll be around. Tell me when you're ready, I'm waitin'...” 

Maya’s lips switch around a shy smile. She knows, somehow, when he’s looking at her like that, that he’s thinking about last night.

Last night is just the latest in a long thread that they’ve had since reestablishing their relationship. They’re hot and frantic or lazy and sensual and completely perfect. They’re the kind of nights when sleep holds no appeal at all, that touching each other is the only kind of satisfaction they need.

A curl flops over Shawn’s eyes as he plays and sings right at her. She grins for real because she can’t help it and props her chin up in her hand as she watches.

A pair of warm, flabby arms wrap gently around her shoulders and she feels the weight of a chin on her head.

“You know,” Emilia’s gritty voice says softly near Maya’s ear, “I think the two of you are my favorite thing that’s ever happened in this little beach town.”

Maya rubs Emilia’s arm and nods. “I think I agree.”

Emilia winks at him from her perch above Maya’s head. Shawn flushes, still unable to control the rush of blood to his cheeks each time Emilia looks at him with that mysterious twinkle in her eye. He watches the women murmur to one another, and his heart beats a little faster, just enough to feel against his ribcage. 

But before the galvanized rhythm can overwhelm him, Shawn closes his eyes and continues to sing. His voice is soft, as though he’s decided to sing the rest of the song to himself. Sometimes it’s the quiet moments with his music that have the most powerful impact on an audience, and more importantly, on the woman he’s in love with. 

“And if I have to, I'll wait forever, say the word and I'll change my plans. 

Yeah, you know that we fit together, I know your heart like the back of my hand…” 

Shawn’s energy shifts. He gets quieter, like he forgets he’s not in the studio playing quietly for her or in their house, sitting at the baby grand piano he built for them as a housewarming gift when he moved in. 

But there’s just so long he can go without looking at her. His gaze is drawn to her, as if pulled by a magnetic field so strong he couldn’t fight it if he wanted. His fingers climb along the piano keys while he watches Emilia press her cheek into the top of Maya’s head. It’s his turn to wink, but he directs it at Maya.

“So baby, tell me when you're ready, I'm waitin'. Baby, anytime you're ready, I'm waitin'...”

She giggles at the way Emilia squeals teasingly in her ear. As Shawn’s voice fades out and the song ends, the restaurant claps politely. Maya mimes whistling at him and continues clapping.

Emilia releases her from her loving near stranglehold. Maya tilts her head up at the woman’s face, grinning ear to ear and covered in sunspots.

“Can I have a coffee milkshake with caramel and whipped cream please?”

Emilia tosses her head back and laughs, a big, strong belly laugh that doesn’t match the finer aesthetic she’s created for her still quirky restaurant since the renovation. They don’t even have milkshakes on the menu anymore -- too lowbrow. But Emilia kept the machine. Maya and Shawn are glad she did.

Shawn manages to catch Maya’s request when he’s heading to their table. He grins up at Emilia, slings his arm over Maya’s shoulders and slides into the seat beside her. 

“I’ll take a chocolate shake, Em, if it’s not too much trouble.” The smile that splits his lips is as sugary as the treats they’ve ordered. Emilia calls it his ‘popstar smile’ when she’s trying to give him shit, but he thinks she likes it more than she lets on. 

The woman shakes her head, but smiles as she wipes her hands on the front of her black apron. “You’re always too much trouble, kid.”  

Emilia gives Maya one last look, something Shawn can’t quite read, then scurries back to the kitchen, repinning her curls to the top of her head as she goes. 

“So,” he murmurs, angling himself towards Maya, “What were you two talking about? I can only assume it was me.” His nose nudges her temple, lips brushing over the apple of her cheek. 

With his heavy arm around her shoulders, Maya curls comfortably into Shawn, resting her hand on his stomach as he peppers her cheek with kisses. She can feel the way he smiles through it, just happy to be close to her. She knows the feeling.

Maya crosses her legs, resting her foot against his calf. She shrugs. “You always think everything is about you. You’re not the sun.”

She’s teasing. He knows she was talking about him anyway. She moves some floppy curls out of his eyes.

“She just loves us, that’s all.”

“Everyone seems to love us these days, don’t they?” he asks with a smile. 

Maya and Shawn are a bit of local lore. The town is small and it talks. Everyone knows about the guy who owned the workshop whose long lost love came back to where they spent a few weeks in love one summer, and how the beach brought them back together. They’re not too nosy, but Maya and Shawn are noticed, and not just by Emilia.

She brings them their milkshakes, making a silly show of pretending to hide them so the other customers won’t wonder where they came from.

Shawn nearly moans. The milkshakes are beautifully decorated, with a smooth caramel drizzle topping Maya’s whipped cream, and a deep brown ribbon of chocolate swirled around his own. 

“Em,” he says with a laugh, “If you wanted to be inconspicuous with these, you shouldn’t’ve made them so pretty.” Shawn grabs his spoon and digs into the homemade whip Em always keeps around just in case he and Maya stop by. 

“Maybe,” hums Emilia, “But y’all deserve a nice treat every now and then.” With that, she drops a kiss to the top of Maya’s head and shuffles off to the busy kitchen. 

“She’s spoiling you rotten, Lemon,” Shawn garbles around a spoonful of milkshake. As he swallows, his mouth stretches into a wide, close-lipped smile, his cheeks ruddy, the corners of his eyes crinkling.  “But I don’t think I can blame her.” 

Maya rolls her eyes, swallowing her own enormous mouthful of espresso-y goodness. She winces at the slight brain freeze and shakes her head quickly before answering.

“Spoiling you, too. She gave you extra whip, I can tell,” Maya accuses playfully, jabbing her spoon at his overflowing glass.

She settles back into his arm and continues poking at her own shake. The restaurant is lively tonight, warm with conversation and good energy. Emilia’s is almost always like that. It’s why she and Shawn love it so much. She may even miss it while they’re gone.

“How much do you have packed?” Maya asks him carefully after swallowing, narrowing her eyes.

They leave for Greece tomorrow. Three weeks of beach hopping around the coast, exploring little towns, enjoying history, even taking some sailing lessons in the Mediterranean.

Maya herself has barely packed. But he doesn’t need to know that.

Shawn wipes a dribble of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. He tilts his head, swirls his spoon in his glass so the rest of his whipped cream mixes with the shake. 

“Packed? For what?” he asks with a quirk of his brow. He keeps his gaze trained on his glass, the most promising method for maintaining his silly rouse. 

A bag full of light summer linens packed specifically for Greece is stashed on his side of the walk-in, where it’s been for a few weeks now. Shawn’s been eager to get away with Maya since even before they bought the plane tickets. Packing his bag so early was a cathartic release for the frantic energy of his anticipation. 

He certainly has more to pack, though. It’s hard, however, when every free moment he has tends to be occupied by efforts to make his girlfriend come as much as possible. 

Maya rolls her eyes and swallows a mouthful of ice cream, elbowing him softly.

“For what, he asks. Like you’re not counting the seconds.”

They both are. They both have been. They don’t lead extraordinarily stressful lives, but they’ve been pushing hard lately. They took on their first commissioned project together, a harp with an intricate design described and ordered by a doting grandfather for his granddaughter. He sent to pick it up yesterday and called the studio to relay his effusive praise personally, letting them know it would not be his last purchase and he wanted to tell all his friends about them.

Now that that project is done, they’re ready for vacation. Maya herself still has some things to toss into a bag. She’s packing light, though. Staying in a series of villas around Greece with Shawn doesn’t call for much in the way of clothes. Some light, breezy dresses, plenty of bikinis, and not much else.

She can’t fucking wait.

She finishes the milkshake with a deeply contented sigh and presses her cool lips to the side of his neck. 

“What are you most excited about?” she coos, the same question she’s asked over and over since they booked the trip -- a fun way to anticipate and daydream as they prepared for their first vacation together since they came to Avila as kids.

Shawn hums. He pushes his own empty glass away and curls his arm tighter around Maya’s shoulders, tipping his head so his cheek brushes the top of hers. 

“I think--” the word is drawn out, as if he really has to consider what might possibly excite him during their trip, “I think I’m most excited about finding a little cafe where you’ll jump up on the table and start singing Dancing Queen to me. Or Mamma Mia. Whichever fits the cafe scene better.” 

Shawn smiles into the kiss he presses to Maya’s head. The scent of her coconut milk shampoo floods his senses and he sighs, content to spend the rest of his life with his nose buried in her hair. As much as he’s looking forward to their trip, nothing beats being nestled together at their favorite table in their favorite restaurant, full of their favorite milkshakes. 

Maya snorts. “Gonna have to feed me a lot of ouzo to get that to happen.”

She has no doubt there will be a lot of ouzo and a lot of cafes. But if Shawn wants Maya singing in public, he’s also going to have to smile real pretty. Which, as it turns out, he’s an expert at.

One of their regular waiters drops the check on their table. Maya lets Shawn put down his card because she’s footing most of their vacation bill, since it was her idea.

“What about you, Lemon?”

“I thiiiiink,” she teases him with a smile, running her fingers against the back of his neck, “Probably all the skinny dipping we’re gonna do in the Adriatic. Or Mediterranean, either or. I’m not picky.”

She nips his jaw and reaches for her purse to stand. They have more to pack, so it’s probably time to be heading back. Maya blows Emilia a kiss and catches the one she sends in return. She makes a mental note to find her a nice gift while they’re abroad. 

“I don’t know about skinny dipping, Lu,” Shawn muses as he guides her out of the restaurant, aiming a friendly wave over his shoulder to Emilia as she bustles around the main dining room. “Those European seas get pretty chilly. And I’ve got precious cargo to protect.” 

She almost chokes on a breath.

“Did you just refer to your cock and balls as precious cargo? Not that I’m disagreeing, but Jesus, Shawn,” she laughs, squeezing his hand playfully. 

Shawn grins, the dimple in his chin popping out. “Bad joke? It was Geoff’s, first. Blame him.” 

He swings their joined hands between them, making sure to keep his pace at a leisurely stroll while they head down the boardwalk. Sure, there’s some packing to do, but Shawn’s not in a rush. The sun hasn’t even set. The breeze is warm, salty, perfect. Maybe Maya will go for an evening surf before they have to get down to business. 

The waves swell, roll in, crash, retreat. 

Maya finds herself slowing her pace to match his. Sometimes she catches herself power walking around this sleepy beach town like it’s Manhattan at rush hour and she has to remind herself to slow down. There’s no need for that anymore, and Maya is so grateful that he’s here to help keep her from sprinting through life.

Maya admires the way his curls rumple in the shore breeze. He squints adorably through the golden hour sun. She thinks about painting him this way and wonders if she could ever hope to capture the colors accurately.

Shawn turns so he’s walking backwards ahead of Maya, their hands still clasped together. “You wanna go for a surf? You didn’t get out there this morning.” 

She shrugs and plays with his fingers while they walk. “Maybe. Kind of just want to stay on land with you.”

He watches her bend and stretch his fingers as he continues his backwards trek. She studies his face, and he knows she’s got her artist eyes on from the contemplative intensity of her gaze. He stays focused on their linked fingers. A look like that from Maya is full of weight Shawn’s not sure he understands. 

He comes close, though, when he writes music about her. 

“Do we have to pack right away?” he asks eventually, swinging around to walk forward again when they near the house. “Let’s get stranded on the beach for a little. Watch the sunset. If no one’s around, I could make you come.” 

Shawn’s itching with the need to savor this last night in Avila, because it feels as though tomorrow will change them. They’ll be a different couple on the other end of this trip. He’s eager for it, to really begin his life with her, but he’s not in any rush. 

They have the time for another sunset. 

Maya’s eyebrows lift. “Well, I certainly think I could make time for that in our very busy, very official pre-travel schedule.”

Maybe they’ll be up late throwing clothes into a bag, dazed and smiley after spending another several hours in bed like they’re prone to do. Maya doesn’t mind. It’s always worth it with him.

They live far enough off the boardwalk to avoid most foot traffic. The house is quiet but warm -- they left a few lights on when they left for dinner, giving it a cozy glow. Maya looks up at it with pride. It was the best thing she’s ever done for herself, buying this house. And now it belongs to them both. It feels right.

The sun is starting to dip below the horizon when they arrive out on the beach in front of the house. She stops and drapes his arms around her shoulders like he’s a blanket, facing them toward the sunset. She looks down at their feet, hers between his, and traces her toe around the inside of his foot.

“Love you,” she murmurs softly. Maya’s not afraid to say it. She saves it for the most special occasions, and for some beautiful, cosmic reason, this feels like one. 

Her gentle words push his heart into his throat. His pulse is loud— drum drum drum— in his ears, and he hides his satisfied smirk in her neck. 

She makes him feel painfully twenty-one again with such simple words. 

But he’s not twenty-one anymore, and he’s pretty fucking glad for it. He was a huge idiot back then, even if he did fall in love with the right girl. He’s better at loving her now, with his newfound, middle-aged wisdom. 

“I know,” he growls into her neck when he manages to find his voice. He bites at her throat, then kisses his way to her ear. “Now stop bragging about it, Lemon, and watch the sunset with me.” 

-----------

Thank you for joining @achinglyshawn​ and I on such a special journey! We loved sharing this story with you and appreciate every message, like, or reblog. 💜 wishing you all safety and love.

@smallerinfinities​ @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn​ @infiniteshawn​ @mendesoft​ @singanddreamanyway​ @alone-in-madness​ @abigfatmess​ @shawnitsmutual​ @awkwardfangirl2014​ @september-lace​ @sinplisticshawn​ @rollingxstone​ @randi-eve​ @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire​ @itrocksmysocks​ @parkerspicedlatte​ @simpledomain​ @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day​ @thecurlsofgod @magcon7280​ @bensbuttercup​ @shawnsmusical​ @paigeasourous​ @tell-me-when-ur-ready​ @softmendesss​ @searchingunderthestars​ @buggy-blogs​ @mendesficsxbombay​ @siennarossi​ @lostinshawnsmemory​ @umbreakablesoul​ @sleepybesson​ @shawnsheaven @desire-to-live​ @jillian-nd​ @shawnwyr​ @curlsofshawn​ @graysonmendes​ @tnhmblive​ @meltingicequeen​

[yanara126-writing]

The Miracle of Verdant Vorlas

It's time for Eothas to truly show his presence in the most effective way, and Waidwen is prepared to do whatever is necessary. It doesn't go quite as planned.

Read here or on Ao3

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

Waidwen had known this day would come. He’d not known that it’d be today, but it didn’t surprise him. This was the biggest crowd he’d drawn yet. Of course they’d choose a time when they’d have an audience. Yes, he’d known, he was prepared for whatever they’d put him through. He could do this. They could this.

You’re afraid. It wasn’t a question, just a calm statement, holding no judgement but simple understanding.

Yes, he was afraid. He watched the guards push through the people and wanted to hide in a corner far away. (Where his father wouldn't reach him.) He felt something warm creep over him, almost like the idea of a hug. He let himself sink into the feeling for just a few seconds.

You don't have to do this alone. I will be with you the whole time. And wasn't that part of the issue. The temptation to just give in, to let Eothas take over, to draw back and hide from the pain that was sure to come. He knew Eothas would let him, if he asked. But no, he wouldn’t be a hypocrite. The change he was about to bring would hurt, and he would face it like all the others. And the time wasn't right just yet. They might know how to make an action grand, but so did Waidwen.

The guards arrived and climbed up the speaker's platform. He didn’t resist when they forced him to his knees. He winced when they pulled his arms behind him and put him in chains, but still didn’t object. The crowd on the other hand became more unsettled by the second. There were cries of protest, but no one dared actually intervene. The guards weren't known for their mercy towards rebels.

When they were sure he was secured, the enforcer stepped on the wooden platform. He was a short, round man who looked like he would be faster rolling than walking. Seeing him made Waidwen's blood boil again. He let the anger drown out the fear and forced a tight smile onto his face.

“Chains, really? Doesn't that seem a bit excessive?” And it was. He was just as emaciated as the rest of the common people here. He hadn't eaten properly in weeks and probably wouldn't have been able to tear even the thinnest rope. Not that he thought the other man would be able to, he doubted there were any muscles under all that fat. Fat he’d gained by starving his people, while they toiled on fields each day.

“You’re the one claiming to be a god's avatar.” The man sneered down at him as if he was little more than dirt on his shoe. Oh, how he wanted to burn that arrogance of his hanging-cheek-face. Preferably literally. But that’d be overkill and would cost more energy than the maggot deserved.

“In that case chains will hardly hold me, no?” He said with a grin Ondra's fiercest sharks would be proud of. It was incredibly satisfying to see the doubt creeping into those pig eyes. May the pigs forgive him for that comparison.

“We’ll see about that, blasphemer!” The man was spitting more than talking, with most of it landing on Waidwen, who sneered in disgust and vowed to find the nearest river to take a bath as soon as this was over.

Indeed, we will. ‘See about that or take a bath?’ The presence flared up lightly in a warm and soft way that Waidwen had come to identify as amusement. Both.

“Now, blasphemer, we will recount your crimes, so that the people you mislead will see what an atrocious heretic you truly are!” Oh, this would be interesting. What they lacked in compassion, they certainly made up for in creativity. He’d heard many interesting explanations that he knew now were utter horse shit. The famines for example. Their payment was meagre on account of supposedly missing profits. The truth was, their pay had steadily declined ever since the Dyrwood had won it’s independence. The harvest was by no means good, but had been unchanging for the last hundred years.

The enforcer pulled a scroll out of his bag, broke the seal and cleared his throat. Not that it actually helped him. The people didn't seem inclined to listen to him defame their champion. They only grew quiet when Waidwen let his eyes roam over them. It didn’t help the enforcer’s confidence and Waidwen allowed himself the satisfaction of it.

“Now listen closely peasant, for you stand accused of the following crimes before his majesty by divine right the ferscönyng: Intoxication!” As if there was anything else to do in this shithole aside from starving and drinking, if you could even get your hands on something, that is. Not that he’d done much of the latter in recent times. He hadn’t touched a bottle since that day in the field. There were more important things to do.

“Animancy!” Still not terribly interesting. He didn't have the funds to attempt such a costly practice and everyone knew. No one here did.

“Exhuming the dead!” Yes, because clearly digging up corpses is what someone inhabited by the god of rebirth would do. He rolled his eyes.

We could. Though I have to admit, I never tried my hand at actual necromancy. Waidwen snorted quietly at that.

‘And we should probably leave it at that.’

Probably.

“Cruel statements to a child!”

“As opposed to your letting them starve?” Waidwen turned his head just enough to give the man a questioning, but no less condescending look. The crowd stirred again. The guards stepped forward, hands threateningly on their weapons. The people grumbled but stood down. The enforcers spluttered indignantly, throwing his hands around as if to ask the surrounding folk for support against Waidwen’s audacity. When no one reacted, he pulled back and tried to play it off with little success. The mood was clear.

“Consorting with a cean gŵla!”

Ew.

As much as Waidwen wanted to keep up his show of defiance, he had to lower his head at that or everyone would see the slightly deranged grin he was trying so hard to suppress. There was just something about a divine entity saying 'ew' that was much more entertaining than one would think.

I'm glad you find me so humorous. The voice was soft and laced with slight amusement. It gave him comfort to be reminded of some other feeling than his current rage and fear that made his skin crawl. A small part of Waidwen not preoccupied with the situation suspected Eothas' comment might’ve been more for his benefit than an actual expression of opinion. He took a deep breath, put his mask of confidence back on and faced the people again.

“Indiscretion with an animancer!” Waidwen looked at the enforcer again and raised an eyebrow.

“You probably should’ve led with that. After a cean gŵla an animancer seems like a let-down.” The man’s face grew red and he spluttered again. Waidwen did not have time to savour his victory however, when a guard came up behind him and bashed him over the head with the end of his spear. The force of the blow ripped his head to the side. Even through the ringing in his ears he could hear the shrieks of protest from the masses beneath.

“Silence, accused! You are to listen to your charges! Do you see what a villain it is you are lending your ear to? Silence, I say!” This attempt yielded no better results than the first. The crowd quieted down again, though openly hostile now. The enforcer was sweating and clearly uncomfortable.

The ringing in Waidwen’s ears let up and his previously spotty vision returned as a light warmth spread through his head. Careful to not let his quick recovery show too much he blinked and lifted his head again.

‘Thank you.’ Don't thank me yet. I doubt that was the worst of it. Instead of the former lightness the voice was now heavy with something that might’ve been grim anticipation, if the Child of Light was even capable of that. But Waidwen had learned in the last few weeks that the gods were much more than just ideals, or perhaps less, depending on your viewpoint.

“The next of your crimes: Making lewd gestures at a woman!” He was certainly tempted to make lewd gestures, but as far as he was aware, there were no women under the potential receivers. And if there were, he certainly didn't care. His regard for gender had significantly dropped in recent times. Not that he’d ever understood all the commotion the nobles made about it in the first place. The women had to work as hard the men out here and nobody batted an eye about it. Besides, Magran was a woman and he was fairly certain she would rain fiery vengeance on anyone who would dare treat her like some delicate flower.

I would indeed advise against that. Though I fear in our case it would hardly make a difference. What followed almost sounded like a sigh. He was rather trying to avoid thinking about that. Ending the aedyran tyranny was one thing, facing down gods another.

A kick to the stomach reminded him of his current issues and he doubled over, pulling in a sharp breath. He should probably focus on the moment.

“Public Indecency!” A breathless laugh escaped him. “And that from the man who I'm sure will demand my shirt soon.” Another kick set his ribs aflame and nearly toppled him. He could feel the warmth rising again, but pushed it down determinedly. Healing that would be too obvious. He could take some bruised ribs if it meant more effect later.

If you are certain... Eothas obviously wasn't, but would respect his wishes, like always. Sometimes Waidwen was tempted to test out just how far his patience could be stretched. Thankfully there was something else to claim his attention and distract him from that dangerous line of thought at the moment.

At this point the enforcer was profoundly flustered, whether from embarrassment, anger or fear of the increasingly angry mob Waidwen didn't know. Whatever it was, it caused him to choke out the last accusations in quick succession. “Venereal disease! Sabotage! Impiety! And of course, sedition!” The man was breathing hard, as if he’d been the one being beaten. It was obvious that he didn't want to be here anymore than Waidwen himself, but just like Waidwen he didn't have much choice in it either. He’d started this mess and now he’d have to live through it. And they both knew it. He swallowed hard and motioned for the guards to draw a bit closer before continuing.

“Do you deny these accusations?” Waidwen slowly straightened again and let out a few controlled breaths to sooth his sore ribs before answering.

“I’ll deny only the ridiculous ones. I don’t deny the sabotage of the tyrannical regime starving it's people. I don’t deny what you call sedition, because a government that's harming it's own subjects must fall, and it’ll fall by the hands of it’s own suffering people, so that this country may see the light of a new dawn! I don't deny that my actions must look like impiety to you, for you have perverted the faith of Eothas to darkness and despair, and so can’t recognize his light and hope staring in your face!” The speech wasn't quite as impulsive as he tried to make it look. He wasn't terribly good at talking actually, but he also didn’t want to completely rely on Eothas, so he did his best to plan ahead. He was quite good at that, after all, you couldn't properly cultivate land without being able to think ahead and acclimate to changes. Impulsive or not, it did have it's desired effect. The people cheered and the guards couldn't effectively move in without leaving the enforcer defenceless. Waidwen gave himself a bit of time to collect his thoughts and prepare himself, before he spoke up again.

“I stand by my actions. I don’t regret them and have no intention of stopping. But I'm no hypocrite. They are crimes, no matter how justified and I will face the punishment for them.” The no doubt humiliating and painful punishment. A prolonged lashing if he had to guess. He closed his eyes.

‘Please don't leave me through this.’ I won't. You won't feel it, I promise. The words were warm and comforting. They spread a mantle of peace over him and pushed down the fear that was slowly threatening to choke him. He let it happen and sank back into himself to wait out the squabbling facade of a trial to choose an already set punishment. After a few minutes of meditation, he was roused by a sudden increase in volume.

“So it shall be! The accused shall be subjected to 30 public lashes, they are to be carried out immediately!” The crowd roared. If they were angry before, they were furious now. 30 lashes wouldn't necessarily kill him, but with his not exactly peak physical condition it might, or would at best do serious damage. To their knowledge at least.

“I consent.” He didn't raise his voice any louder than his usual speaking voice. He didn't need to. It’d been one of the first things Eothas had taught him, how to speak with authority. Everything grew silent around him. The common people stared at him in horror and he forced a slight smile on his face. It became a bit easier when he felt another warm caress, like a steadying hand on his back.

The enforcer had obviously no idea how to react. He was staring at Waidwen like the rest, the scroll still in hand. He’d expected the calm to break at the reveal of the sentence. He’d expected protest, curses, anything, but not this unbroken acceptance. How someone could so confidently agree to be being beaten half to death, he didn't understand. Unless the man wanted to martyr himself? That would be very inconvenient, but there was no dignified way back anymore.

Behind him Waidwen could hear the man breathing heavily and he imagined the blood red face sweating bullets, but didn't deign to look at him. Instead he let his gaze wander over the crowd in front of him. Most were men his age, some were older and he could even see a few mother's with young children clinging to their skirts. All of them were dressed poorly, some with hardly more than rags. They stared at him with desperate eyes in gaunt faces. His determination rose and this time it wasn't because of the Divinity bonded to his soul. This was the reason he had agreed to this insanity. He would make everything better for these people, no matter the price. No other child would suffer as he had.

We will make sure of it. A promise ringing with their shared conviction.

He’d weed out the pests that had taken root here. One after another, starting here and ending wherever necessary.

Finally, life seemed to return to the people around him. A guard stepped onto the podium carrying a solid wooden pillar so large it was impressive he could even lift it. With a resounding thump the pole was set down. Someone removed the chains from his arms, only to wrench them forward and above his head. The chains came on again and were fastened to the top of the pole where an iron ring just for this purpose was hammered in. From the people below he could hear shuffling and quiet sobs. With his arms in front of his face he couldn't see them, but what he heard was enough.

Suddenly he felt a cold knife at his ribs, slicing off his shirt and into his skin, leaving a shallow but burning cut. And while that was painful, that had also been his last halfway decent shirt. The annoyance at having to find, probably make, another one was far better to concentrate on than the fact that he could hear someone unravel a whip.

The first hit took him by surprise, even though he knew it was coming. He heard the snap of the whip and the people's outcry and then felt a short pressure pushing him forward a little, but just like Eothas had promised, there was no bite to it. Instead it felt like someone had drawn a line of warm honey over his back, or at least what he imagined that would feel like.

The second hit added another stripe, and though the feeling itself wasn't painful, Waidwen couldn't help but remember the last time he’d been whipped. It’d been more than four years ago, but he never forgot any of them. The last time had been only weeks before his father had died, and perhaps he'd known and wanted to make one last impression, because that time had been by far the worst. They'd argued the whole night and he'd skipped mess the following morning, watching the dawn from a nearby hill instead. When he'd returned, father had waited for him with the belt. Waidwen hadn't complained, it wouldn't have accomplished anything. The beating he'd taken that day had left him unable to move properly for days.

The third hit came with a pain that he knew wasn't real and only came from his memory. It didn't hurt any less for it. In some corner of his perception he could feel the presence in him shift a little with something that almost seemed like guilt.

The fourth hit came slower, more hesitantly. He concentrated on the warm, almost viscous feeling the blows left on his back instead of the pain he knew should accompany them.

After the fifth one they stopped entirely. Waidwen heard the shuffling of feet and agitated whispers behind him. He tried to take a deep breath, to anchor himself in the here and now, but stopped and winced when his sore ribs protested.

The whispers stopped and the enforcer spoke up with a voice so trembling it almost made the fear worth it. “The... the point has been made. Be thankful that we are so merciful to end your deserved punishment early. Let it... let it be lesson to you, next time we'll... we won't be so merciful!”

Oh no, he wouldn't let them get away that easily. Waidwen called upon Eothas and, as always, He obliged. When Waidwen spoke next, Gaun spoke with him: “No. You will reap what you have sown. You called for a punishment, now it must be finished.”

The feeling of the hard wood under his knees faded away, as did the weight on his arms. What remained was an all-encompassing buzz and the peripheral awareness of what was happening around him. Peripheral, but absolute. He didn't see, but he knew the people the people were staring with awe and terror. He didn't hear, but he knew some of them were uttering prayers. Just as he knew the majority of fear stood behind him. He knew one of the guards had a young daughter, who’d just received her ordination to the priesthood of Eothas. He knew another one was a follower of Woedica and was currently reconsidering his faith. And he knew the enforcer was stewing in his own terror, slowly realizing that he'd never had any real control over the situation in the first place.

Waidwen was aware of the whip hitting the ground and the soldier who'd held it stepping back, even though His ears felt like they were filled with cotton. He knew the man did it out of fear of divine vengeance against his recently deceased son. Just as He knew, the man who picked it up, hoped for a promotion back to Aedyr. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the power suddenly at His disposal. The power of a god.

All of his former fear bled away into nothing as the vastness of Eothas’ being overtook his senses. What remained was absolute conviction. The limits of His consciousness were fuzzy and the small part of him still aware of himself was deeply uncomfortable, but the majority was entirely overwhelmed by the feeling.

They had joined before, but never with this intensity. The only time that had come close was in the very beginning, in the field, and that had left him unconscious for hours. But not this time. This time They had something to prove, and nothing would stop Them.

So the punishment continued. They knelt on the ground and waited. Every hit heightened the already tense atmosphere. They didn’t count the blows; They didn’t need to. The people around Them knew, so They knew. Time passed both incredibly slow and immensely fast. It felt like everything around Them was in sharp focus, yet so inconsequential that time didn’t waste itself on it.

When the whip fell for the thirtieth time, the last bond keeping Their power restrained fell away. Instead of keeping it concentrated in Themselves, They let the floodgates open and the energy surged out into the physical world. With nerves that didn’t quite feel like they belonged to Them, They felt heat a human body shouldn’t be able to withstand, heard a bubbling and following clank, saw a blazing light illuminate Their surroundings, emanating from Them. An eternity passed in a second, spent finding Their place in the physical form They now shared. Only there was no sharing anymore. No Them, just a single entity with a single purpose.

The people saw none of the intricate mechanisms behind the merging of two very different souls happening right in front them. What they did see was a divine miracle without comparison. As soon as the last stroke had been dealt, Waidwen’s body was engulfed pure light. The metal chains glowed red and melted off His arms, falling to the ground unheeded. The light was bright enough to illuminate even the furthest and darkest corners, leaving no place to hide. Many of the onlookers fell to their knees, including some of the guards on the platform. Those who didn’t were either completely rigid or scrambling to get away. The man, if he even still was a man, in middle of the commotion didn’t seem to notice either way. He rose from his knees with a fluidity and grace that made the spectators question if He’d really moved at all. When He spoke, it wasn’t any louder than before, but His voice most definitely wasn’t human anymore. It carried such power, that it continued to reverberate deep in their souls, long after the words had reached their ears.

“See now, your suffering was never meant to be. You were deceived by those meant to deliver my will, betrayed by those meant to carry my lantern to guide you. But the world will be dark no longer. Hear what is said today, follow my guiding light, and rise above your existence as victims. Fill your hearts with splendour, for the time has come to let your actions shine brighter than their falsehoods. Banish all fears and unite with all who wish to see the light as you do. By the hands of hope the dawn of a new day shall rise over Readceras and you will be my harbingers.”

No one dared so much as breathe throughout the speech. After almost a minute of silence, a young man jumped to his feet, cheering and screaming praises. Like a wildfire it spread through the masses and soon the town square was filled with screams of joy. No one was still anymore and the air was filled with excitement. A god had spoken, and no in uncertain terms. The time of meek submission was over and the feverish anticipation of the coming fight permeated the atmosphere. With a god, their god, leading them, how could they lose?

The being their god and champion had become still stood on the stage, overlooking the scene. The satisfaction of an accomplished goal filled It, nothing else was of import. After all, what could possibly be able to stop It now?

Suddenly the world split again with violence. The being was gone, back in It’s place were a human and a god who’d just been violently torn apart and were now struggling to fit back into their former shapes. The edges where the essence of their souls had been split were raw and coated with a feeling Eothas wasn’t quite able to identify in his confusion.

Waidwen meanwhile howled with pain. Something had left a deep burning gash across his back and with reflexes gained from more angry brawls than he wanted to admit, he thrust his elbow back with as much force as he could muster. His arm met resistance and a soft crunch was heard, followed by a pained shriek and the thud of a body hitting wood. Waidwen took no notice of it. He was gasping in pain and desperately scrambling to make sense of the situation. Something hesitantly rose in him and he automatically latched onto the familiar presence. Eothas carefully returned the gesture and the bloody gash across Waidwen’s back closed under his cautious attention. With the biggest distraction out of the way, Waidwen noticed that he wasn’t the only one shaken up. Where Eothas usually felt like a steady thrum of energy, his essence now flickered erratically.

Behind them someone groaned and Waidwen immediately spun around, suddenly reminded of where he was. On the ground lay the guard who’d whipped him, holding his bleeding and shattered nose, a bloodied sword on the ground next to him. The rest of the delegation stood frozen in fear. At being presented with a new task, Waidwen quickly pushed the last few minutes to the furthest corner of his mind and did his best to look as imposing as possible in his rattled state. He stepped determinedly over the writhing guard on the ground and cornered the enforcer. He glared down at the man who cowered beneath his gaze and looked like he’d just pissed himself.

“You’ll take your men and return to the governor. You’ll tell him that he has one chance to leave willingly. If he doesn’t, he’ll have to face the wrath of the people he terrorized. And mine.” He all but growled the last two words. The enforcer nodded hurriedly and scrambled to get away, but Waidwen grabbed at him the collar, holding tight. “Aren’t you forgetting something,” he said pointedly and gestured at his trembling assailant. At the enforcer’s shaking sign two other guards stepped forward, grabbed their now sobbing companion and dragged him off the stage as fast as they could. Only when they were out of sight did Waidwen loosen his grip. The other man took his chance and fled, almost tripping on the steps down in his panicked haste.

With the message passed on, Waidwen noticed that there were still more people. The commoners had gone quiet again when the light had died down and had watched the happenings with confused attention. Now they were staring at him, both awed and confused about what they should do now. They were looking to him for the guidance he’d promised. Only Waidwen was as confused as they were and not exactly at his best at the moment. Eothas was strangely quiet and both of them were hesitant to interact again after what had just happened, their essences dancing around each other like two flames in the wind.

Waidwen himself had trouble remembering the exact course of events. It felt removed from him, like he’d watched it happen through a thick fog. All that remained was a profound sense of unease and the fear of losing control again. Trying to get his bearings, he couldn’t do anything but stand and feel awkward. Once again he was very aware of his own shortcomings. He was just a farmer, he’d never learned how to lead and the one who’d promised to help him had pulled back so much, that the only affirmation of his continued presence was the vague unrest, that didn’t belong to him, simmering through.

A light breeze passed through and Waidwen shivered, reminding him that he was still half naked, making him even more self-conscious than before. He’d never been ashamed of his body, but now with over a hundred people staring at him, he could feel the blood shoot into his face.

Suddenly he felt a soft weight being placed on his shoulders and flinched. The weight turned out to be a guard’s purple cloak and when he turned around, he found that two knights had stayed, looking about as uncomfortable as he felt. One of them was missing his cloak and holding the pin with the emperor’s crest in his still raised hands. They looked at each other shortly and with a sudden burst of determination the other one also pulled off his pin and they both hurled it to the ground, shattering it. They looked up to Waidwen again, a hesitant spark of hope in their eyes.

The wordless declaration of loyalty rattled something loose in Waidwen and with a start he straightened, pulling in a deep breath. He had a job to do. He thanked the knight, pulled the cloak closer and started organizing the people. Now that they’d made their official debut, everything had to go fast or it’d become a lot bloodier than he wanted to. While delegating the different tasks that needed to be done, he mentally poked Eothas, who immediately started, as if being woken from a trance.

I apologize. I shouldn’t have left you alone. The voice sounded more sheepish than Waidwen had ever heard from him. Somehow Eothas not being his usual confident, righteous self, disturbed him almost more than the actual situation. The idea that He might not know what exactly they were doing any more than Waidwen, was more distressing than he’d ever expected.

‘It’s fine. I’ve got it handled now.’ That sounded like a lie, even to himself, but Eothas didn’t comment on it. They both chose to leave the dragon in room unmentioned. Both them were disturbed by the loss of control they’d just lived through. And though both of them knew, thanks to the connection they shared, neither wanted to admit it.

‘Do you think we can do it?’ Waidwen surprised himself with the sudden seed of doubt, but with how unsettled he was, maybe he shouldn’t have been shocked.

I think with that presentation, there will be few people who will try to stop us from freeing Readceras. Not exactly the answer Waidwen had wanted to hear, but he didn’t doubt Eothas was aware of that. Freeing Readceras wasn’t what he was worried about. He felt awkward and at times unfit for the task, but he knew they could do it. The two knights had been a surprise, but a welcome one. It showed that some of the upper classes could be convinced to follow their cause. Now that Waidwen had come down from his adrenalin high, that gave him a healthy dose of confidence that he’d be able to end this with less bloodshed than he’d feared. What would come after was what scared him.

He was tempted to pry, but at the same time he feared what he’d find. Instead he decided to take it as advice and focus on the present. There was enough to do now. Messages to send out, people to convince, supplies and especially provisions to organize. A successful rebellion didn’t run it itself, that notion had cost the few revolutions before him their victories.

‘And maybe I’ll even be able to find myself a shirt before this is all over,’ he added mentally and arranged the cloak differently, when another shiver passed through his body. Then the cold let up and a gentle, familiar warmth spread through him, accompanied by another quiet apology. Waidwen tensed, but when nothing else happened, he relaxed and enjoyed the tender feeling wrapped around him, much softer than a cloak could ever be. Yes, they could do this. And whatever had happened today, they’d be able to handle it, together.

Together.